


The Oldest Dance

by veriante



Series: A Little Broken - Bondlock Verse [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond is a tease, Bondlock, Hurt/Comfort, I overwrite. A lot., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 82,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veriante/pseuds/veriante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James looked down at the Quartermaster, meeting the dilated hazel eyes as he leaned closer, till their bodies were flush together. Their eyes closed involuntarily as their groins met and the Quartermaster's back hit the wall behind him. James raised his arms, trapping the Quartermaster with his forearms and leaned his head down.  </p><p>"Seduction is my favourite dance Q." James said, lips just barely brushing the Quartermaster's. The young man surged forward to make contact but James leaned back, keeping the distance constant. The Quartermaster, his Quartermaster, made a desperate noise. James smiled and leaned down, awarding him with a soft open lipped kiss along his jawline. </p><p>"But it's not the only dance I know." James finished, grinding his hips against the Quartermaster's before he stepped away. The young man moaned at the loss and opened his eyes. </p><p>"Bastard." He said vehemently. </p><p>***** </p><p>In which James finds himself in the field with the enigmatic Quartermaster and learns that maybe the oldest dance he knows isn't seduction and he isn't the only one left a little broken by the years. Or... in which Sherlock gets into trouble and Q jumps to the rescue - with 007 in tow!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into the 00Q fandom - thanks Miss L.J - you have added more sleepless nights to my life. 
> 
> Self explanatory - 00Q with Bondlock. It won't be extraordinarily serious, but I do intend to deal with some of the demons that comes with the job both Q and 007 do in their day to day lives. There will be some angst and since I love character torture, hurt and comfort. 
> 
> The story has been mostly written already - just being reworked and posts will occur weekly or close to it. Please feel free to let me know if I'm screwing something up or alternatively, if you like what I'm doing. Comments and kudos is likely to motivate rather than discourage! 
> 
> It is unbetaed at this stage, but I do hope that I can coerce (bribe) someone to help with that. Anyone?

27 October 2012

M was strangely calm and it didn't take long for James to deduce the reasons. The three months long inquiry into MI6 must have ended in a positive manner. The 00 Agent had to give it to the poor bastard. He had inherited a broken MI6 and had to defend it tooth and nail to ensure that it survived and grew stronger for it.

James had been a monumental part of that. He had shown that despite his 'age' and the fact that he had been in the game longer than most, he had been able to adept to the technological age with his flexibility and adaptability. In fact, he had done so better than most of the younger agents. He had helped to prove to the British Government that MI6 could adapt to the new age and that it was still relevant. That probably helped M with his current good will towards 007. 

“You are officially on leave 007.” M said as soon as the debrief was done. James looked up, raising his right eyebrow as the only response. M raised his own too for a moment before he sighed and responded to the unspoken question. 

“It isn't just you. All of the 00s has been rather... busy of late. We are giving the ones that we can, a break. We need you functioning.” M said and James had to agree. He was exhausted. The three months hasn't been kind to his psyche or his body. He needed the time to rest up and to build up his strength again. 

“I don't need two weeks sir.” James replied, just because he was stubborn and M snorted in response. James tossed back the last of the brandy and let the alcohol burn its way through his body, hoping it will dull the instincts still on high alert with the excess adrenalin flooding his body still. 

“Tell me that after Medical is done with you.” M said drily but before James could actually get up and leave, he added, “tomorrow 007.” James nodded his response and left the glass on the side table before he walked out. 

James closed the door of M's office firmly before he faced Moneypenny. She was stunning as usual, wearing the most gorgeous purple dress that hugged her curves and complemented her colouring so well. James felt the barest hint of desire stir at the pit of his stomach, but it was more like a passing thought than anything too serious. He was tired. He wanted to go home and drink himself to oblivion and hope that no nightmares reach him through the alcohol fuelled fog. 

“Do make sure you visit the Q Branch before you go home though. Q will not be pleased if you fail to show.” Moneypenny told him with that lilt and seduction in her tone. Anyone else and James would have thought that she was turning on the charms for him, but that was how Moneypenny was at all times. James dismissed it and nodded curtly to her. He was too tired for even the usual banter. 

“See you tomorrow Miss Moneypenny.” He told her with some warmth and she gave him a genuine smile before she turned her attention back to the computer. Poor thing, James thought. It was 22:23. She should have been home by now but with James' debrief being scheduled for as soon as he had returned, she hadn't been able to leave. Not that there was even a hint of tiredness in her demeanour. 

“Good night Mr Bond.” She replied and James let the name percolate in his mind for a few moments as he made his way down to the maze that was the Q Branch. 

Bond. James Bond and not, most definitely not Jeremy Benton the Antiquities Dealer from Scotland. He was also not John Barrowman, or Jack Bradley. He was James Bond now and it was safe to be in his own skin with the pleasures that he enjoyed. Not those men that he had used for covers. Commander James Bond of Her Majesty's Service, James reminded himself and tried to feel comfortable in that skin. It took a couple of breaths to remember who he was. What he really enjoyed. 

James thought about all the things that made him, him as he passed through the countless scanners, rode two elevators and walked through the maze of corridors till he had reached the Q Branch. The security cameras followed his movements diligently even at the ungodly hour. 

As he reached the last door and allowed the scanner to take his fingerprint, scan his iris and take his pass code, James tried to remember if he had all the equipments that Q had provided him with. He had the radio, the phone and the personalised Walther. Not bad, James thought. It was likely that he wouldn't be receiving any lectures tonight. 

At James' entrance, a few beady eyed technicians turned to give him a passing look before they turned back to their computer screens and gadgets. Despite the hour, the Q Branch was buzzing with activity. Apparently Q Branch was inhabited by caffeine high teenagers with no concept of sleep.

He made his way through the countless stalls and desks between himself and the centre of the Q Branch, where, even in the distance, James could see the lit screens and words flowing. James could see the mop of brown hair flopping over the desk chair at the centre console and knew that the Quartermaster was in. 

“Mr Bond.” The female voice that interrupted James on his way towards the Control Centre was familiar, in the same way that Q's voice was familiar. James turned around and saw a young woman, Asian in background, most likely Japanese from the delicate features and her lack of height. She was petite, but in a perfectly balanced fashion and dressed very sharply in a black pencil skirt, white crisp business shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black high heels. 

“How can the Q Branch be of assistance to you tonight?” The female asked, her voice calm but firm. The way that she was essentially blocking his way to the Control Centre and her tone told him that she did not the Quartermaster interrupted. She must be R then, James surmised. The assistant to the Quartermaster and a hurdle that he apparently had to go through when he wanted to see the Quartermaster. That was new. 

“That depends on what assistances you offer.” James found himself saying, almost as an automatic response to seeing a beautiful young woman smiling delicately at him. She giggled a little, but her eyes didn't laugh. James found his instincts reacting with the subtle hint of subterfuge. 

“Oh Mr Bond. Your reputation does proceed you. I am Rose, the Quartermaster's assistant. I-” She moved forward a little, almost putting out her hands to take the equipments from him, James assumed, but the door at the Control Centre opened and Q interrupted. 

“I hope you brought back everything I gave you 007.” The Quartermaster said in a dry voice whilst James moved past the confused Rose and walked up the few steps that led into the Control Centre. 

If James was honest with himself, he would have admitted that he had been looking forward to seeing the Quartermaster. It has been almost a month since he had seen him last and James had a good, clean appreciation of the young Quartermaster's appearance and their banter. 

“What's in it for me if I have?” James asked as he closed he door behind himself. The Quartermaster hasn't turned his chair around from where it was facing the computer and tapping noise of the keyboard hadn't stopped either. Not that James had expected it to. 

“The more pertinent question would be in regards to the punishment you will get, if you failed to do so, 007.” The Quartermaster replied, his voice still dry but there was a tinge of warmth. James found himself smiling as he moved to stand near the Quartermaster's desk. It was a mess, with computer components and what appeared to be a few explosive sticks thrown about. James cleared a small spot for his equipment. 

“I bought back the non-expendable parts.” James told him in reply as he disarmed himself. He put the Walther down first, holster and all, the nifty smart phone that had an ECD component along with 3 explosive sticks hidden in the fancy case the phone was cased in, and the impossible to detect earpiece. 

“I am very glad to hear that 007.” The Quartermaster replied as his typing slowed down. From what James could see, the young man appeared to be repelling an attack on their servers. James was by no means an expert, but the pathways being outlined in the rapid programming were within the MI6 internal systems. More specifically, their P Drive, where mission details were usually stored. 

“Problem?” James asked as he leaned against the table. He knew that he ought to leave, to go home and relax and leave the genius to work so that he can get some sleep of his own. James was yet to contact the Q Branch and not be answered by the Quartermaster. Considering how he had been in every time zone in the last three months, that spoke of just how much time the young man spent in the 'office'. 

“A distraction. A delightful one, all things considered, but a distraction nonetheless.” The Quartermaster replied and his hair flopped around as he shrugged. James wondered if this was the young man's idea of fun and realised it probably was. James fought the amused snort and stood up. It was getting late and since it had been nearly 64 hours since he had decent sleep, James really ought to get home before the adrenalin crash hit. With that thought, he began to walk out.

“007.” The Quartermaster called and James stopped at the door, noting that the typing had stopped. He turned around from the door way and faced the young man and tried not to let his reaction show. The last time James had seen him, he had been pale and thin, just like half of the Q Branch was (the other half was pale and overweight). Apparently the last month hadn't been kind on the Quartermaster. 

“Quartermaster.” James replied even as he critically assessed him. The Quartermaster's face had taken on the pallor of sickly people and there were dark circles under his eyes that seemed as deep set as his eyes were. His lips even held no colour and his clothes, hung off of him as if he had lost even more weight than he had before. He looked like death warmed over and James felt a flare of something at the bottom of his stomach.

“Before you leave, take that white box with you.” James looked at where the young man was pointing and found a plain white box that looked very much like the kind that would contain files. Coming from the Q Branch, James doubted it was so innocuous. 

“What is in the box Q?” James asked with a raised eyebrow and the Quartermaster closed his eyes briefly and ran his hand over his eyebrows. James noted clinically that even the young man's fingers had gotten thinner over the weeks. He was seriously malnourished. Eventually, the Quartermaster replied. 

“A Walther PPK 9 mm with your palm print encoded. Two spare magazines, a secure tablet, a smart phone programmed with the usual numbers and an earpiece encoded to your genetic make up.” James opened the box and looked at the contents before he turned his questioning gaze at the young man. He wasn't on a mission. He had just been told by M that he was on leave for two weeks. It was very unlikely a new mission had come in in the mean time and even if it had, James required at least two days to heal from his sprained right wrist. 

“We made a risk assessment and made a decision after much debate. Even with the limited budget, we thought it wise and necessary to ensure that our best agents had access to their equipment at all times, and not just when they were officially on mission.” The Quartermaster said quietly as James watched him. The young man's exhaustion was clear even in his voice and mannerisms. Not that it seemed to impact on the roundabout explanations he gave. 

The last time James had seen the Quartermaster, he had been energetic, almost bouncing about as he sought to explain the process that had gone into making the smart phone with explosives built into it. From even the conversations over the earpieces, James had thought that the exuberance was a part of the young man's usual character. Except, the Quartermaster seemed incapable of such enthusiasm. 

“So you want us armed 24 hours, 7 days of the week?” James asked sardonically, questioning the wisdom of the decision with his tone if not words. The Quartermaster finally cracked a smile at the tone. 00 Agents were usually compared to armies because in essence they had the capacity of an army, but internally, they were also compared to armies because that's the amount of trouble they could cause too. 

“Try not to shoot your neighbour for loud music 007.” The Quartermaster replied in the same tone whilst James gave him a smile for it. Under the watchful eye of the Quartermaster, James donned his new equipment. He slipped the holster onto his belt and the phone and earpiece into his pocket and held the tablet in his left hand. He always felt a little uneasy when his right hand was occupied. 

“Do you want me to take these to your minions?” James asked, indicating the items he had left on the table. The Quartermaster shook his head and stopped as if he felt dizzy and sighed. 

“They are not my minions. They are highly trained and incredibly intelligent technicians in Her Majesty's employment.” He retorted and stood up, or rather, attempted to. James saw the body movements before they occurred, reading the subtle hints and reacted fast enough to catch the young man as he faltered. 

James' right wrist complained at taking the full weight of the Quartermaster's malnourished body and the cut he had sustained in the right forearm seemed to have opened again as they met the barely cushioned bones of the Quartermaster's chest. James ignored the pain, not even flinching as he straightened the young man and stepped in close to steady the figure. 

“Q?” James asked carefully. He had the instinctual urge to berate the young man for failing to take care of himself, for allowing his body to be so deprived of food and sleep that he could barely stand up, but bit it all back. James knew just how hard the young man had to have worked in the last three months to rebuild the Q Branch and to defend his work after the mistake made during the Silva incident. The Quartermaster needed support, not a lecture. 

“I -” The Quartermaster took a steadying breath and laid his head against James' chest for a moment before he put weight on his own feet, steadying himself. James waited patiently, not moving and not offering any more support than what he believed the young man needed for the time being. 

“I'm – I'm fine. Thank you.” The Quartermaster said eventually as he drew back and James let go of his arm. James stepped back slowly, making sure that the young man wasn't about to fall over again. When he was sufficient distance away to see the young man's face, he saw that there was a wiry smile there. 

“It appears I have overreached myself a little.” James smiled too at that and nodded, but offered no commentary. He had no right to. Despite their friendly banters, it had been strictly work related and there was simply not enough of a relationship between the two of them for James to lecture or show his concern beyond that of the usual co-worker level. Despite what his instincts wanted. 

“It appears so.” James replied and watched as the young Quartermaster moved slowly to collect the items James had brought back into the white box and close the lid before he moved to sit back down in his chair. James thought for a moment and opened his mouth, but the Quartermaster beat him to it. 

“Go home and take your well deserved rest agent.” James thought for a moment as he listened to the clear dismissal and fought down the words that he wanted to actually say, like offer the young man a ride home, or offer to call the driver for him, or – no. James pushed it all down and simply nodded. 

“Perhaps it is time for you to take a break too, Quartermaster,” James said as he nodded curtly and began to make his exit. The young man nodded in reply, but there was a firm dismissal in the nod as he turned back to the computer. 

James walked out of the Control Centre and as he did, he met the calculating eyes of 'R', or Rose, as she had introduced herself. She gave him a smile and a nod, but her hand was already on the phone on her desk. 

“Good night Mr Bond.” Rose said as she dialled a few numbers and the understanding that passed between them was enough to put James at ease as he wished her good night and walked away from the Q Branch, to where he could commandeer a vehicle and go home. It really had been a long, long couple of days. 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

The Quartermaster of MI6, the most valuable Head of Branch after M himself, stared at the computer screen for a long moment after the infamous 007, James Bond had exited his office. He watched the computer screens to make sure the man was out of the Q Branch before he dialled the driver and cancelled the summons to take him home and instructed instead, for him to drive R home. There was no need for her to stay. 

When that was done, Q turned his attention to the white box with the equipment 007 had returned. He opened the box again and looked at the condition of the items brought back. The Walther would have to be scrapped, he decided, or sent to the training grounds for use by the trainee agents. With realignment of the sights, the gun would function, but none of the 00s would find it suitable for their needs now. The balance would be a little off. 

Q let his fingers idly run over the grooves that had been carved into the slide. 007 had used the gun to block the sudden knife attack that had come from his left hand side. He had probably gotten a cut on his right arm from it too, Q had surmised, but 007 hadn't reported such an injury, not that he was likely to. 

The phone just needed a new cover and new screen protector and Q could easily pass it off to one of the A Agents, those that were in training for the 00 division. Only the 00s received the best of the best. The earpiece though would need to be reworked. Q had worked out a way to genetically encode the earpieces to ensure that only the correct wearer and their electrical impulses could activate it and this one was one of the older models. They had gone through a few issues with connectivity. That simply wasn't acceptable. 

Q briefly thought about fixing the earpiece then and there and sighed. He was exhausted. His vision was coming a little grey around the edges and the lack of nutrients and sleep was beginning to seriously effect his efficiency. He had miscalculated his own body's abilities, Q thought with some irritation. Sherlock was better than him at such biological calculations. 

Sleep. Food. Q could go home, he supposed. There was nothing that required his urgent attention and he did miss his bed, but the hacker that had attacked their system that night had been good. Not good enough to challenge him, but his best programmers were home or in the cots set up in one of the bunkers, after the 28 hour marathon of cracking a network of terrorist cells computers and he was the only one really that could deal with another attack. 

Not home then, he thought as he looked over to his sofa. It wasn't the best option, but it was the best one he had. Having learnt from his previous mistake, Q stood up slowly and made his way to the sofa and laid down, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. Two hours sleep, he thought to himself. Two hours was all he needed to recover enough body function to deal with the rest of the night. With that, he closed his eyes and let the darkness swallow him. 

*#*#*#*#*#


	2. Second Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temptation is the downfall of many, but if someone could take the risk, who better than a 00 agent?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added dates - decided story would make more sense with flowing time (that is all made up and not linked to real events). 
> 
> Updating because I finished work late and can't sleep. YAY for insomnia and NAY for working night shift tonight! 
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and comments! and once again, more the merrier - I will also accept criticisms!

 31 October 2012

 

Q leaned back, sinking into the chair that had been ergonomically designed by him for his comfort. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment as his fingers danced across the keyboard. Even with is eyes closed, Q could see the code writing itself as it went and he adjusted where necessary until he hit the final 'Enter' key.

 

The two screens, the ones on his personal computers and most definitely not on the main computer within the Control Centre, lit up and Q opened his eyes to watch both, finding himself breathe and relax as he did so.

 

The first screen contained the image of a man in his late middle ages, dressed immaculately in his customary three piece black suit tailored perfectly for his slightly rounded shape, crisp white shirt and a black tie. The look was completed by a black bowler hat preferred by those of the gentry classes even now.

 

The black umbrella he was utilising as a cane was in his left hand as customary, forming the image of the perfect English gentleman. The man had a generous smile on his face as he looked straight at the camera that was watching him. Q smiled.

 

The man tipped his hat towards the camera with his right hand and turned away from the camera, getting into the car that had been waiting for him. The black nondescript sedan's door was held open by the uniformed driver, but there was already a passenger inside, who looked up from her Blackberry when the man entered the car, but returned to the screen a second later.

 

Q turned his attention away from the particular screen as the vehicle drove away and focused his attention on the second screen. The screen contained a view of a street, just like any other street in London. The camera was focused on a particular terrace building and at the entrance of the said building, a man in his late thirties sat. It was impossible to tell his height, but anyone could tell that the man weighed exactly what was minimally required.

 

The man looked directly at the camera with a small shake of his head, but there was fondness to the movement that Q recognised and acknowledged with another smile. The man was dressed in a black coat and a scarf was wrapped around his neck, but otherwise, the man wore lavender coloured business shirt and trousers underneath.

 

The man looked away from the camera, looking at something occurring outside of the camera's purview. Q resisted the urge to change the angle and waited. Within moments, another man came into the view. A blonde one this time, a man that couldn't be described in any other way than as ordinary. Though, Q was well aware, appearances could be deceiving. Especially in this case, Q thought.

 

Q watched for a while as the men in the screen talked and walked down the street again. The man in the coat spared the camera another glance before he left, an acknowledgement of Q's presence if nothing else and Q spared his final smile before he disconnected from the cameras. Whilst he doubted that anyone could trace his work, Q took the extra measures to delete any and all traces of his interference with the London CCTV system and sat back in the chair, feeling settled.

 

It wasn't exactly a miracle cure, but it did work wonders to relax Q when he was feeling stressed and exhausted. Though he was much better off than he had been couple of days back, a picture of health he was not. He had eaten more than sufficient calories to ensure that his body could function at its peak capacity and the naps he had taken had allowed the exhaustion, if not to melt away, at least diminish.

 

“Sir, we have incoming.” The polite voice entered Q's musings from the internal communication system, cutting off the relaxation that had barely began to settle into Q's bones. Q looked up to the main screen and saw what Rose was seeing and nodded to her.

 

“Thank you Rose. I will handle it from here.” Q stated as he stood up and moved to the main computers. The Q Branch's computer system gets attacked all the time. That was nothing new and neither was the differing levels of attack.

 

There were the amateurs attempting to hijack the ports and link into the MI6 system by running automatic programs. Then there trojan horses, viruses and numerous mindless internet attacks. Except there was also those individuals with actual talent and coding capabilities attempting to hack their way through the firewalls of the Q Branch and thus, through to MI6.

 

Most of the attacks weren't anything that Q couldn't handle in his sleep. But these days, some of the attacks were showing a high level of skill that had Q mildly concerned. It was also disconcerting that Q hadn't been able to trace the hacker immediately.

 

“Start the trace.” Q ordered through the comm he had interfaced to his glasses. The act of hacking was best described, in Q's mind, as a game of wits. First of all, most hackers set up connections, all over the world if possible, to lay the false trails to ensure that they couldn't be traced to their real location. As they are hacking into the firewall of their chosen target, those like Q fight back by reinforcing the firewall and attempting to trace the hacker. And Q was a very well versed player.

 

“Sir, the route is different from last time. It is going to take a while.” Spider, one of Q's best hackers replied. Despite the frustration he ought to be feeling, Q found himself more interested.

 

“Do what you can Spider.” Q replied as he got to work too, letting the firewall slip little by little in planned weaknesses to hold the hacker's attention. In a way, hacking and defending against a hack was exactly like the game of chicken. Bravado usually gets you caught, Q thought as he typed, delight coursing through his blood as the hacker ignored Q's set weaknesses to exploit some of the real weaknesses. Q smiled widely to himself.

 

The game was certainly afoot.

 

*#*#*#*#*

 

The cursor on the computer screen blinked a few times, insistent that James do something. Anything? James ignored it. The mandatory training manuals, the ones that he did need to 'read' or at the very least skip through every year was something that he really ought to be doing. But he was-

 

“Bored.” Alec Trevelyan said as if he was airing James' thoughts. They had bumped into each other at MI6 that morning and after a lengthy 'training' session in the gym, followed by the gun range, the two of them had decided to exhaust their brains with the training manuals. Except, 00 Agents didn't take kindly to inactivity and even with the adrenalin they had burned through the physical training, their bodies were restless and they required something... _more_.

 

“I'm going out. To a bar. I need to get laid.” Alec declared without a single hint of excitement. Even the thought of going out and finding someone to spend their excess energy on was so routine that it had lost their interests. James shook his head lightly with a small smile. The invitation was there. It wouldn't be the first, nor the last time they went out together to some exclusive bar and burnt through their cash and brain cells with copious amounts of alcohol and meaningless sex.

 

“It's still early Alec. It's only 6.” James reminded him. Not to mention that it was a Thursday night, not the usual partying night of London. Alec drew a face and leaned back in his chair for a moment before he bounced out of his chair with explosive energy. James tensed and despite his better judgement, his hand moved towards the Walther, though the movement was suspended mid-way. It sent a nice jolt of adrenalin down his spine.

 

“Alright then! I'm off to see Caterina.” Alec stated firmly, decision clearly made, even as he smirked when he noticed James' reaction. James sighed and relaxed the best he could. Caterina Roderiguez. A young, beautiful, sexy and dangerous Spanish lady with well known kinks. The kind that had Alec going back to her over and over again. James shrugged his shoulder as he stood up too.

 

“Enjoy the bruises.” James told Alec with a tap on the shoulder and Alec gave him a boyish smile that reminded James of just how long the two of them had known each other. Far, far too long, James thought as he watched Alec make his way towards the elevator. James thought for a moment on his own needs and the best course of action to keep the nightmares at bay for the night. He went the opposite way and sought out the set of elevators secreted in the corner of MI6, those that would lead him into the Q Branch.

 

James, if nothing else, knew himself well. All agents had to. They had to know their own strengths, weaknesses, limits and most importantly, how to handle themselves after missions. Some of the agents saw MI6 psychiatrists, some meditated and others sought religion. Most 00s preferred sex, enough alcohol to dull the senses but not incapacitate them, violent acts such as sparring or shooting, but for James, when he was feeling this restless, there was only one thing that could calm him.

 

Speed.

 

He needed the cold wind rushing through him, burning his eyes and the rush of objects moving past him too fast. He also needed the absolute control a vehicle could provide and a tinge of danger from doing 120 mph in a 60 mph zone. After the exhilaration of such a drive, James could enjoy the quiet of the countryside and escape from the demons in his head for that time. After a long drive like that, James knew that no nightmares would visit him.

 

James bypassed the scanners that would lead him into the Q Branch and stood at the doorway for a moment, watching. The Q Branch, the other night, had been buzzing with activity, but it appeared that they were busier and slightly more stressed tonight.

 

Almost automatically, James' eyes sought out the Quartermaster from the rest of the Q Branch and found him in the Control Centre, as was usual. This time though, he wasn't sitting but moving about, his hands flying across three different keyboards as the computer screen flooded with information.

 

James walked through, avoiding the few personnel that tried to run into him and made his way towards the centre of Q Branch. As expected, Rose stopped him from going any further. She was seated at her desk, her right hand still typing even as she lifted her left hand to signal James to stop.

 

“It is a pleasure to see you as always Mr Bond. How can the Q Branch be of assistance tonight?” Rose asked, her voice polite but distant. It was clear that something interesting was happening and Rose did not appreciate James' interruption.

 

“Good evening Rose. Busy?” James asked, finding himself looking up towards the Control Centre and at Q rather than at the beautifully delicate Rose. She was dressed in a grey suit today, another sharp pencil skirt, same black heels but with a royal blue shirt that accentuated her pale skin better. Still, James' eyes focused on the Quartermaster.

 

He was wearing his usual combination of suit trousers, business shirt and a cardigan that seemed a size too big for him. He was moving animatedly about though and James ignored the knot that loosened somewhere in his stomach. He was not concerned. He hadn't been concerned, James told himself even as Rose nodded her response and said something about a hacking.

 

“What can we do for you?” Rose asked again, clearly distracted as James was from the conversation.

 

“I need a distraction.” James replied, leaning against Rose's desk, the suggestion clear. She didn't bite.

 

“How can the Q Branch help you with that Mr Bond?” She asked, her fingers still dancing across the keyboard. James had to admit, he was beginning to quite like Rose for that. It was rare to find a woman, especially those that were aware of his reputation, to be able to hold their own against him the way she was doing. It was refreshing.

 

“By giving me a car. A very fast car.” James replied and waited for the refusal. It was never going to be easy to get a car from the Q Branch. He could always go and buy one, but buying a custom made car usually took time and more importantly, he had already checked the possibility of renting an Aston Martin, but hadn't been able to find a company with one available.

 

“Mr Bond, until you learn to return the cars back to us, I'm afraid we will not be able to provide you with a vehicle. In fact, without M's strict instructions, the only person that can authorise a car to be provided to you, is the Quartermaster himself.” Rose stated as she pointed towards the young man. He was standing in front of the main computer now, his back straight and his brown curls a mess from running his hand through it too many times.

 

“I see. Thank you Rose.” James said as he walked past her desk and ignored her protest and opened the door to the Control Centre. The Quartermaster didn't turn around when James entered, but it was clear from the slight tension in his shoulders that he had at least heard James entering.

 

“I'm busy.” The Quartermaster said, his voice curt and cold, a tone that James hadn't heard before. James found himself closing the door to the Control Centre behind himself and stepping a little closer to the Quartermaster, curious despite himself. Without even thinking about it, James found himself almost close enough to wrap his arms around the young man.

 

The Quartermaster was a mystery no one at MI6 seemed to know. Whilst James had good banters with the young man, he did not _know_ the Quartermaster. James also knew very little about the young man though the Quartermaster seemed to know everything about James and all the other agent. So, when James felt the cold hard barrel of a gun digging into his stomach, it came as a complete surprise.

 

“As I said, I'm busy.” The Quartermaster repeated, his eyes never leaving the screen and his right hand never faltering. James fought down his instincts to disarm the young man and cause him harm and instead, focused on the other heated emotions and thoughts that swam through his mind. The Quartermaster needn't have to protect themselves with a gun. Especially not in the belly of MI6.

 

“So it seems, Quartermaster.” James said quietly, calmly, lest the young man shoot him. He also stepped in closer so that the young man's body was flush against his and when the Quartermaster relaxed at the sound of his voice, James wrapped his arm around the younger man to control the arm holding the gun, with his left hand and carefully cradled the Quartermaster's face with the right, turning it to face him.

 

“007. I do apologise. I clearly mistook you for someone else.” The Quartermaster said, his voice suddenly warmer and no hint of tension in his body. In fact, he seemed to relax into James' hold as if he felt safe and comfortable with him nearby. James allowed the information to sink into the back of his mind for him to think about later and focused on the situation on hand.

 

“Someone else you need to defend yourself against? With a firearm?” James asked, feeling his eyes narrow. James studied the Quartermaster's eyes and facial features for signs of deception as he waited for him to answer. The younger man only smiled and shook his head, closing his eyes briefly as he leaned into James' embrace. James stifled the surprise he felt at the action.

 

“No one you need to concern yourself with 007. As pleasant as this is, I really am busy. What can I do for you tonight?” The Quartermaster asked and James wanted to ask him for the name of the person that made him have a Walther KSP 200, a .20 calibre handgun on his person, in the office, but knew better than the expect an answer.

 

“I could think of a few things you can do.” James found himself whispering into the Quartermaster's ear, even as he asked himself if he had any idea what he was doing. Whilst James had always appreciated the way that the young man looked and enjoyed their flirtatious banters, James hadn't ever thought of the Quartermaster as a possible sexual conquest, except holding him this close, James couldn't resist.

 

“I am not one of your conquests 007.” The Quartermaster said with a hint of amusement in his voice, though he didn't tense up or even attempt to move away from him. James knew that he ought to move back, to ask Q about the person he was protecting himself from, get a car and leave for that drive. Except, James looked at the long, clean neckline of revealed before his eyes and couldn't resist. He found himself raising the Quartermaster's head and give into temptation.

 

James placed his lips against the lithe neck and breathed in the unique scent of metal, warmth, tea and something undefinable and felt his mouth water. James felt the shiver that went through the Quartermaster's body at his breath falling onto his skin. James felt his eyes close and nuzzled the skin at the Quartermaster's neck, placing another kiss and breathing in the scent deeply, trying to memorise it.

 

“No, no you certainly aren't.” James breathed into the skin and took a deep breath before he let go of the young man and backed away, taking the gun with him. When the Quartermaster turned around to face him, James gave him the best smirk that he could manage and focused his attention on the gun. A good choice, James thought, trying to ignore the thousand other thoughts rushing through him. .22 calibre meant that it would do just enough damage, but there was little concern for ricochet in the enclosed space of the office.

 

“What do you _need_ 007?” The Quartermaster asked and James noted that there was more colour in his face and his pupils were slightly open, as if James' actions had effected him. James filed the information away but did what he could to ignore it. Even if there is mutual attraction, James wasn't about to go and shag the Quartermaster of all people. It was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea, even for someone like James Bond.

 

“A car. A fast one.” James replied. MI6 doesn't have qualms about internal sexual affairs, in fact, it is almost encouraged for agents like him. The same gender thing isn't even likely to raise an eyebrow, considering how politically correct the organisation strived to be and with most 00 agents being chosen because of their _flexibility_ in many fields, that too was almost expected and often, required. But the Quartermaster? That would be a complaint even he couldn't get rid of. James reminded himself of all that as he distanced himself.

 

“Will an unmodified Mercedes Benz Class 5 AMG do? I'm afraid I'm fresh out of Aston Martins at the moment.” The Quartermaster said, his voice calm and warm. James nodded without hesitation. Whilst Benz wasn't his favourite automotive brand, the handling would be good enough for what he wanted and so would the speed. The Quartermaster smiled.

 

“I'll send an email down to Vehicle Maintenance Unit. They will have her ready for you by the time you get down there.” James nodded and looked at the young man for a moment to gauge his mood. After James was certain that he was in no way upset by his actions, James gave him a smile, thanked him and left the office, walking away as smoothly as he could.

 

With the eyes of MI6 as well as the streets of London all under the watchful control of the Quartermaster, James would have to wait until he was well within the countryside before he did his thinking. Thinking about things he had not thought to even consider until he had walked down to the Q Branch.

 

Like... the way the Quartermaster's skin had tasted on his lips.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#  


	3. Third Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is smarter than this, surely. But the decision keeps being taken out of his own hands. After all, sometimes even the master falls to the spells of a good temptation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm... last chapter? Not the best in the world. Apologies for that - will rework the whole thing when completed. I will also try not to post during insomnia effected nights or days. 
> 
> And yes, I am aware that I said weekly updates, but to be honest, it will be updates when I am able. With work schedule being what it is for me, I thought it best to give you what I can, when I can. Yes. I know it is moving slowly, but then I'm an infamous over-writer that complicates her own life by letting characters make decisions for her. Like in the last two chapters. So in a way, whilst I have a master plan, Q and James are going to make their own way through it I'm afraid.. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy! and don't forget kudos and comments motivate and feed writers! =D

**Chapter 3**

 

4 November 2013

Q looked at the screen and the thermal signatures as he tried to concentrate. He tried not to let the voice bring on the panic bubbling at the surface and tried not to imagine where 009 currently was. The demons just under the surface in his own thoughts were threatening to break loose and neither of them could afford that.

 

“I'm right here with you 009. I will walk you through how you can get out of there. Can you hear me?” Q asked, his voice quiet, calm and firm. Q didn't have visual on the agent, but he didn't need it. He knew what kind of shape she would be in. He would have to go back and work out exactly what had gone wrong, but now wasn't the time.

 

There was no response on the other line. Q knew that the earpiece was still functioning because he could hear the agent's distress through the line. They hadn't found the earpiece or the tracker. Despite that luck, Q couldn't break through the shock colouring her mind. Q bit his lips, worrying it between his teeth as he thought of options. He sighed when he reached a conclusion.

 

“Lara, I'm right here, but I'm going to call someone okay? I'm going to mute my mic for a second.” Q told her softly, knowing that she needed the coddling, even if she would never admit to it when she returned. Q heard a soft sniffle in agreement and breathed a little easier as he reached for the phone.

 

This wasn't the first critical situation Q had. It wasn't even his second, but 009 was the first 00 agent that had broken down like this. The others had been A list Agents and it had been easy with them to find the right triggers to get them back on their feet. But with 00s, their triggers were usually worked out of them. Except training could do only so much when it came to covering the harsh realities of sexual violence and Q couldn't think of anything to shake 009 out of her trauma.

 

There was only a handful of people, Q surmised, that could possibly know what she needed and to be able to snap her out of it. With that in mind, Q dialled the familiar number.

 

“How can I help you today Quartermaster?” Eve's voice was warm, as it always was when she was talking to Q. Q took a deep breath and spoke to her, his voice matter of fact and not as warm as Eve deserved.

 

“I need a 00 agent at Q Branch. Immediately. I have an agent in distress and I need their expertise to bring the agent back.” Q told her and Eve hummed on the other line as she tapped along her computer system. Q knew that she was checking the security card accesses to find out which 00s were in the building and who would be best suited. It didn't take Eve long to come to the same conclusions as Q had.

 

“I'll send 007 down to the Q Branch now. We have 006, 007 and 008 in the building, but 007 is probably best suited.” Eve told Q and Q had to agree. Whilst 006 was an excellent agent with as impressive a record as 007, he didn't have he same speciality as 007 and neither did 008. 007 specialised in person to person contact, usually utilising sexual seduction to meet his goals. 008 on the other hand, did most of his work through the scope of a sniper's rifle, blending in only when necessary. 006? His approach was personal, learning the target until he could befriend him at the drop of a hat.

 

Given 009's situation, 007 was possibly the best option, though Q was more than well aware that both 008 and 006 had extensive history of being in the kind of situation as 009 was in currently. Even that knowledge left a bad taste in Q's mouth.

 

“Thank you Eve.” Q managed with a little more warmth and the woman on the other end replied in kind before she hung up. Q looked at the phone for a moment longer before he turned his attention back to the screen.

 

“Sir, I have med evac arriving at the location in 15, with back up due to arrive at the location in 20. I'm afraid med evac will hold off until the back up unit arrives.” Rose said, looking up from one of the consoles set on the left hand side of the Control Centre, designed precisely for moments like this. Q looked at her with a grim line and nodded, turning the mic back on.

 

“009, I have med evac and back up on the way to you. They are going to be there shortly. Do you understand that?” Q asked, his voice as warm as he can make it, trying to reassure her that everything was alright. Or will be. Rose looked up at him, her face grim as his. They both knew the kind of injuries the agent is likely to be sporting and Q wasn't the only one that can see 6 other bodies moving about the compound. Q looked at the computer screen again and then at the screen containing the CCTV footage of Q Branch's main door.

 

007 would know what to do, Q thought. He always did. Even the first time they met.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

“So I'm running like crazy through this market, no real directions since the bloody thing isn't even on a map right? I'm chasing and chasing after this idiot with the launch codes, but he must have done parkour or something because he's like jumping every bloody fence as if-” 008, Matthew Clementine, stopped when heard one of their phones ringing.

 

They were all in the gym, working with the free weights. Since their imposed 'holiday', they had been gathering almost every morning to spar, then work out in the gym to strengthen the muscles their sparring told them, had gotten weak over the months of no training. James looked at the phone that was ringing and with a grunt, put the dead weight back in its holder as he rose from the squat. His thighs complained but even that felt good.

 

“Report to Q Branch immediately 007. 009 needs your assistance.” Eve's voice was all curt and professional. James knew that tone from her. It meant it was serious and there was no time for anything but work. James picked up the towel and dried his sweat the best he could, but it was a losing game. He hung up the phone with Eve and a second later, he was beginning to move.

 

“Going down to Q Branch. See you down at the range later?” James asked Alec and Matthew, though he knew that Matthew would wipe both of them out as far as firearms were concerned. Both of them nodded, but didn't ask. They knew better when James' own tone left no room for questions.

 

James kept the towel wrapped around his neck and took a tracksuit jacket with him. Outside of the gym, their air conditioned air hit his skin harshly and James took the opportunity to cool down a little before he donned the jacket. By the time he made it to the Q Branch, he was only sweating a little, though it would be clear to anyone what he had been up to, even without the towel or the sweats he was wearing.

 

James walked through the scanners and made his way towards the Control Centre, almost gleeful that there was on Rose this time to stop him from entering. It didn't take him long to figure out why though. Both rose and Q were in the Control Centre and if their facial expressions were any indication, it was serious. Considering how new 009 was though, James wasn't surprised.

 

“What is the-”

 

“Its going to be alright Lara. I can take care of the situation with the computers. But back up isn't going to come for another 15 minutes at least and there are men headed your direction Lara. You are going to have to deal with them. Can you do that for me?” Q said whilst holding up a finger to silence James. The moment Q spoke though, James felt a shiver run up his spine and anger set in at the pit of his stomach.

 

00's typically did not need a gentle hand. They needed firm guidance from someone that will call them up on their bullshit. Unless... something was very, very, very wrong as clearly this situation was. James looked around the Q Branch and saw the nervousness, the fear and anger gripping the technicians that were clearly involved in the incident and Rose. The Quartermaster though, was calm and seemingly unaffected.

 

The Quartermaster dropped an earpiece onto James' hand and he slipped in. It would take a moment for the earpiece to approve of his genetic code and the electrical pulses unique to his body before it could accept the charges enough to work. In the mean time, James watched the Quartermaster.

 

If James was being honest, he had avoided the Q Branch after the last time. Because James knew himself. He knew that he was tempted by the Quartermaster, mostly because James had considered him attractive from their very first meeting and the friendly banter they had kept up had only encouraged that and that gave something of a familiarity to the Quartermaster that James hadn't really had before in a male partner and he found it... alluring. Except, James didn't do relationships and he was fairly certain that as fascinating as the young man could be, James would lose interest the moment he had a complete taste.

 

Though, James thought, the Quartermaster didn't appear to be upset and from his reactions before, not entirely adverse James' touches or attraction. That was certainly something but-

 

“I- I don't – Oh God. Oh God!” The sobbing, broken voice of 009 came through the earpiece suddenly, cutting through James' thoughts like a hot knife through butter. Her voice was harsh through too much screaming and there was a tone to that voice that James recognised all too well. He had heard it from himself more than once. James could imagine what had happened. It was either a torture of some sorts, James imagined it was sexual, or a loss that the agent simply could not cope with.

 

There was no other reason that James could see a 00 agent having a break down during mission, not when it wasn't safe. Even at the worst situations, most agents fought through it until they were safe. Apparently 009 couldn't. Not ideal, James thought grimly as he looked at Q and his worried expression.

 

James moved in close to the Quartermaster, well aware of the range of the mic. From what James could see, only the Quartermaster's mic was activated. Aware that if he spoke to the right hand side, his voice would be picked up, James stood behind the Quartermaster and leaned his head to the left hand side of the young man.

 

“Let me talk to her.” James whispered in the Quartermaster's left ear, leaning down close until his lips ghosted over the shell of the ear. Hardly appropriate, but Q shivered deliciously from the contact. He also nodded firmly and James moved away, knowing that Q would activate his mic for him.

 

“009, I have 007 here. You know him right? I'm going to ask him to walk you through what you need to do. But I need a moment to explain the situation to him.” The Quartermaster said, his voice still soft and gentle. He turned around to face James after turning the mic off for both of them. James noted clinically that the Quartermaster was still far too much underweight and exhausted.

 

“009 was on mission. To Russia. She was tracking an arms deal for uranium. She seduced one of the buyers and was present at the auction. Everything was smooth until she made contact with the seller to obtain details in relation to where the uranium came from. The buyer she had seduced had located a bug she had planted and passed the information to the seller. She appears to have been... tortured, extensively for approximately 26 hours. She has taken her chance to escape and killed her torturers and she is near the exit, but she's finding it difficult to... concentrate.” The Quartermaster said with very little emotion, but from the tightness around his eyes and the way he was clenching his jaw, James saw that he too was angry.

 

“I'll guide her through. Can you guide me through where she needs to go?” James asked quietly. The Quartermaster nodded and brought up the schematics of the compound. A quick look confirmed what he had said. There were rapidly cooling bodies near her and warm bodies moving towards her.

 

“009.” James started softly. There were two ways that James could think about to get her out of there with her own actions. From what he knew of 009, she was former SAS and a tough nut to even get to SAS as a female. Especially whilst looking as feminine and as delicate as she does. Given her background, James knew that he could snap orders at her and her body would obey before she could think it through. and he could command her through the escape. Alternatively, he could walk her through with a gentle hand, but he doubted it would do her any good.

 

“Sir.” 009 replied, her voice shaking. James closed his eyes as the decision was made for him. Smart girl, he thought.

 

“Get up and pick up the damned gun soldier.” James didn't quite bark it, it had never been his style, but his voice took on a commanding tone and his natural charisma carried it through. 009 responded by standing up and picking something up with difficulty.

 

“Yes sir.” She responded and stood still, waiting for the next order. James knew that within the next year or so, this aspect her would be trained out of her, but that if required, it would always be a fall back for her. As it was for army background agents. Following orders made most of them slip into almost a meditative state that allowed them to act without thinking. Mostly.

 

“Open that door and eliminate the hostiles moving towards your direction. Is that clear soldier?” James asked, voice firm and 009 moved with an acknowledgement. There was brief sounds of gunfire, but it was over quickly before she was back on the comm.

 

“Hostiles have been eliminated sir. I have the information that had been my mission objective sir.” James could hear the exhaustion through the tone and nodded to himself, letting out the breath he had been holding.

 

“Good job soldier. Your back up is two minutes. Med evac is already on location. Standby for their directions.” James ordered and heard her reply before she sank down onto the floor near the men she had killed. It would take her some getting used to, but James knew that she would do well later on. Better for the experience than otherwise.

 

Off to the side, James listened as the Quartermaster sent instructions to the med evac and the back up that had been called for 009. It was only then that James realised that he hadn't ever really seen the Quartermaster interact with people other than himself. Watching him now, talking with Rose and technician he had called in, James found himself surprised.

 

He had thought that the Quartermaster, if a little introvert, was a warm sort of person, with a quicksilver tongue and the witty humour to go with it. It wasn't exactly that the Quartermaster was cold towards Rose or to the technician he referred to as 'Spider', but simply that he wasn't warm to them. James found the information curious as he kept watching.

 

“Sir, I have the data you requested from the computers in Moscow.” 'Spider', a young man with a shaved head and far too many piercings, dressed in what _could_ be interpreted as business casual clothes, said as he came up to the Quartermaster. He was holding a USB in his hand, but instead of handing it to the Quartermaster, he laid it on the table next to the younger man.

 

“Thank you Spider. I'll take a look in a minute. In the mean time, lets make our friends in Moscow regret touching one of our agents.” The Quartermaster said with a hint of heat in his voice and Spider grinned widely. James found himself fascinated by the exchange.

 

“I know just what to do. Our people will be out in another 10?” Spider asked and the Quartermaster confirmed and within moments, both Rose and Spider was out of the room. The Quartermaster picked up the USB and carried it to his desk, plugging it into his personal computer and not the main system. James walked to the corner of the room, where, out of sight from the main entrance points to the Q Branch and from even the centre of the Control Centre, was a black leather couch, just long enough for someone like the Quartermaster to lie down on it. James sat down.

 

“Thank you for your assistance, 007.” The Quartermaster said quite abruptly and James found himself looking at the younger man's back with the half dozen unformed questions. James paid more attention to the tone now than ever and noted that despite the words, there was no dismissal. The young man, whether he himself was aware of it or not, wanted James to stay.

 

“My pleasure as always to work with you, Quartermaster.” James said quietly and whilst the half dozen questions still remained unformed, James found himself needing to check the facts if nothing else. He stood up from the rather comfortable sofa, ignoring the stiff pain in his thighs from the lack of stretching after the vigorous work out and made his way to the Quartermaster's unprotected back.

 

The young man was focused entirely on his work and with the workout shoes, James didn't make a single noise as he moved. When he was close enough, not for the Quartermaster to feel his warmth, but close enough for James to reach out, James curled his right hand around the Quartermaster's neck and felt the immediate tension that was formed. The young man's hands froze on the computer desk and if James could see his eyes, he knew that the Quartermaster's eyes would resemble something like a rabbit caught in headlights.

 

“Shh... It's only me. I am not going to hurt you.” James said quietly as he let the tension in his hand go and turned the gesture into a caress instead, kneading the muscles under his hand. As if his voice did the trick, the young man relaxed immediately, his hands flopping down onto the keyboard and his shoulders slumping as he almost fell into the chair. James felt his eyes narrow. He had seen this sort of reaction from people before, certainly, but it was the last reaction he had expected from who he had expected to be a sheltered computer technician.

 

“You startled me. That's all.” The young Quartermaster said, but there was more, James knew without asking. His voice was shaking mildly but contrary to the first reaction, the young man was completely and utterly relaxed under James' hand, though it remained exactly where it was. Then James couldn't resist. He kept his right hand where it was and using his left, turned the chair around until he could face the young man. Using his right hand and the leverage there, he pulled the Quartermaster up until he was standing, facing the 00 Agent.

 

James pulled the Quartermaster in, closer to himself using that right hand, but before their bodies could make contact, he walked around the Quartermaster so that the young man's back was flush against his front. Then James moved his right hand so that it wasn't at the back of the Quartermaster's neck, but moved around to he front, holding it firmly enough for the young man to consider it a threat. He didn't. Instead, the Quartermaster relaxed into the touch and leaned his head back, resting it on the curve of James' right shoulder and leaving his neck bared for James.

 

Whilst the temptation was there, James didn't lower his head to mark that gorgeous, pale neck again. He wanted to kiss it and scent it like he had done last time, but the Quartermaster wasn't his. It wasn't within his rights to do what he wished, though the young man didn't seem like he would protest. In fact, James didn't think that he had the right to even ask the question that he wanted to ask, or actually understand just _why_ he needed to know. But he did.

 

“Tell me his name.” James demanded softly his his lips caressed the Quartermaster's ear and his breath the brown curls tickled his nose. The Quartermaster moaned in response, reacting, James wasn't sure, to either the way James' lips were whispering his ear, or the way that James' hand had tightened involuntarily around the young man's neck. James eased back, but he didn't back off, waiting.

 

“Who?” The Quartermaster asked with some difficulty, his mouth falling often as a pant escaped and James pulled him even closer against himself. There was no question that both was aroused by this situation and there was no way, James thought, that the Quartermaster wouldn't feel his erection, tight against his arse.

 

“The person who hurt you.” James whispered, the unforeseen and impossible to understand anger coursing through his skin and colouring his tone. His hands are gentle though, as they hold onto the Quartermaster, even if his body is tight against him. Somewhere, James' mind warns him about the fact that the Quartermaster's Control Centre is made of glass and there could be eyes watching, but given the mess they had to deal with, James doubted any real attention would be on them. The Q Branch, if nothing else, was well known for being impossible to distract.

 

“Tell me their name Quartermaster,” James demanded when no answer was forthcoming. His hand closed a little tighter around the thin, pale neck, but the Quartermaster didn't tense up or fight back. He simply moaned and his head fell back even more against James' shoulder, his back arching and his arse grinding deliciously into James' crotch. He wasn't embarrassingly aroused, not yet, but it was a matter of time.

 

“I- I can't.” The Quartermaster stuttered and James saw from the corner of his eyes, that the young man's eyes were closed, eyelids fluttering as if the contact was almost too much. Whilst James was sure that he could walk out of the Q Branch without anyone being the wiser about his physical conditions, the young Quartermaster was painfully erect and if his inability to even keep his eyes open was any indication, in no condition to return to work. Fuck. James had gone too far.

 

James had a decision to make and whilst nothing about this particular situation was optimal, James could find very little to object to. So, James kept his right hand where it was and tapped his left on the button he knew would render the glass around the Control Centre opaque. The Q Branch would no doubt have questions about why, but James figured he could make the necessary excuses later. He also pushed the button next to it to lock the door.

 

“You really need to take better care of yourself Quartermaster,” James found himself whispering fondly into the young man's ear and felt him shiver and listened to the moan that escaped. He moved the two of them to the couch and sat down, pulling the young man onto his lap. James kept his right hand where it was and the young man's hand moved up, not to remove James' hand, but to place his own over it, as if it keep it there. James let their fingers intermingle a little even as he kept the even pressure. The Quartermaster moaned and writhed in his lap.

 

James bit back the moan that threatened to break out and controlled himself. He used his left hand to deftly open the young man's pants and slipped his hand through the gap and felt the heat underneath his hand. This wasn't exactly within James' plans, or wouldn't have been in his plans if he had a plan to begin with, but then James worked best off mission anyway.

 

“P-please.” The Quartermaster moaned, his back arching and his arse pressing into James' cock with just the right amount of pressure as James cupped the young man's erection, unable to take the final step. James liked his bed partners to be aware, to be making the decision to go to bed with him, the Quartermaster? James had pushed him into this condition and he felt the sharp pang of guilt. Not that the young man seemed to have the same qualms. The young man turned his head and kissed James' jaw sloppily and James took it for what it was and slipped his hand into the Quartermaster's underwear.

 

The Quartermaster's cock was hot and heavy in James' hand. James ran his hand over it once or twice before he formed a rhythm. If he wanted to be kind, he would have wet his hand to ease his way, but the selfish part of James wanted the Quartermaster to remember this exchange, not just in his head, but _feel_ it in his cock. So James kept it dry, eased only by the pre-cum dripping from the head and whilst he didn't exactly kiss the young man, he used his right hand on his throat and his mouth brushing against his ear, neck and jaw to keep the moans quiet.

 

It didn't take long, which, in James' opinion, was just another indication of the young man's failure to look after himself. Agents learn that to keep themselves healthy and to ensure that nothing could be exploited, they eat well, sleep well and ensure that they are sexually satisfied. It is far too easy to rush into things or make rash decisions or indeed, like the Quartermaster now, become unable to make any decisions.

 

The Quartermaster came with a strangled cry that James muffled, not with a kiss, but his mouth over that of the Quartermaster. James let go of the right hand and used it to gently pet the young man down until he relaxed into James' hold, body completely pliant after his orgasm. The Quartermaster's eyes were closed as he leaned his face in towards James' neck and breathed in, it appeared, James' scent.

 

James reached for the towel around his neck and pulled it down, dislodging the young man for just a moment before he settled down again. James used the towel to clean up the Quartermaster and his own hand. The scent of sex still lingered. James used the time too, to think about what he was going to say, what he was going to do and the consequences that may flow from what had just happened. He didn't get very far before the Quartermaster spoke, his voice drowsy and husky from the orgasm still.

 

“I guess you have two choices, as do I. I can berate you for molesting me, chase you out of here and avoid all contact with you in the future. Given my enjoyment of the situation and the fact I hardly protested, it seems a foregone conclusion that I will not choose that option.” The Quartermaster said as he lifted his right hand to cup James' face even as his lips gently kissed the older man's neck.

 

“And the other option?” James asked, feeling his own erection and the unfulfilled desire still coiled a the pit of his stomach. Even as he asked the question though, James felt that he knew the answer. The Quartermaster wasn't about to suggest that they have a dalliance, or allow whatever it is that just happened, to continue. James wondered, briefly, if he could dissuade him.

 

“I can thank you for your kind attention and apologise for putting you in this position in the first place. You may have noticed, I do find you rather attractive and my lack of attention to myself has put both of us in a rather awkward position.” The Quartermaster said, though he still made no moves to cover himself up or to get up from his position. James felt a small stab of something at the thought that he had just been used, for the lack of a better word, for sexual gratification, but given his job description, he really had no right to protest at that.

 

“I could try to make promises about not allowing such incidents to occur again as pointless as it is. I could make overtures and see if we can do this again, but given your job description and mine that is hardly a wise choice. Instead, I will rely on your professionalism to keep the incident to ourselves and to ensure that there are no hard feelings.” The Quartermaster finished and James found himself nodding, a quirky smiling appearing on his face despite the situation. Trust the young man to find logic even with his pants undone and the smell of his sex lingering in the air.

 

“I would say that is an acceptable conclusion to this situation, Quartermaster. Now, perhaps we should start on that professionalism now?” James asked and the young man stood up, putting himself together. James folded the towel in his hand and stood up also, fixing himself in his pants so that he could walk back to the gym with no one being the wiser. The Quartermaster eyed him for a moment before he took a shuddering breath and turned away.

  


“Thank you 007.” The Quartermaster said quietly and James noted that the young man's hand rose to his own throat and caress where James' hand had been a moment earlier and James found himself nodding curtly as he made his way out of the Control Centre. Just as he stepped out though, the emotional chaos that had been brewing through the exchange and before, slammed into him and by the time that James left he Q Branch, the anger and unfulfilled desire was the only thing he could think about.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 


	4. Fourth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James gets some psychological help... in a manner of speaking.   
> And in which, Mycroft 'distracts' himself... with the help of Andrea/Anthea/Artemis, who knows?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The writing bug has will and truly bit and I am currently up to about chapter 11?   
> Which is good news, because if I get this written and done, you will get regular updates! (WITHOUT insomnia writing!) 
> 
> As usual, unbetaed, unbritpicked and product of a deranged mind possibly in need of help. The kind Bond gets. 
> 
> Anyway~ Comments and kudos peeps! and if you are lucky, you will have another chapter tomorrow.

4 November 2012

 

“I'll meet you at the range. I'm going to have to warm up if I have any chance in hell in besting you.” 006, Alec Trevelyan said as he exited the gym, dressed once again in his civilian clothes, as he called them. Matthew Clementine, known better to MI6 as 008, would have called them 'come hither' clothes, what with the tight dark blue jeans and well fitted sports jacket and just loose enough polo shirt. Matthew nodded his head and smirked. Alec had a tongue in cheek expression that made Matthew want to throw something at him, but that was how Alec was.

“You might have better luck with handguns?” Matthew offered as he wrapped the towel around his waist and looked for the second towel to dry his hair. Alec scoffed and exited the gym. Briefly, he wondered about James' whereabouts, but ignored it. He had said that they would meet at the range and James usually followed through. Besides, even if James were elsewhere, Matthew would have the pleasure of putting Alec back into his place after being smashed during the sparring session. The two of them were damn near unstoppable.

It was nice, Matthew decided, as he ran the second towel through his hair to brush most of the moisture away, to be able to hang around with the other 00s. Whilst some of them utilised the services available, like the psychiatrists and the numerous other... 'services' that MI6 made available to the agents, Matthew found that it was contact with other 00s and talking through the missions with them, that helped him the most.

Even as his mind was occupied, Matthew's instincts flared up as he heard the barest hint of movements off to his right. He knew that it wasn't a threat, the movement was too familiar and the lack of noise told him that it wasn't one of those A list agents, but one of them. So, Matthew wasn't too surprised when the towel was ripped from his hand and dropped to the floor and he was pushed back, harshly, against the door of the locker next to his. His back meeting the cold metal took the breath out of him, but Matthew hardly had a moment to protest as hot demanding lips met his own.

Matthew didn't fight back as he recognised the kiss even before he recognised the man. The violence was almost inherent in the kiss, but Matthew let himself sink into it rather than fight back. It wasn't hard to see that James Bond had somehow hit the end of his tethers somewhere and he needed this as an outlet. He had also done what he could do to find a 'safe' target. Someone that James knew, could take the violence of his actions and would also understand _and_ consent, as it were, to where the actions would lead.

“I'm- I'm so sorry.” James managed even as he continued to kiss Matthew and his hands moved down Matthew's still damp body. Matthew leaned into the touch and raised his hands to participate. He cupped James' head with his right hand even as his left moved to crept under the t-shirt 007 was wearing.

“It's okay. Take what you need James.” Matthew told him and initiated the second kiss, letting his own hunger so, even if it wasn't real. James lapped it up and Matthew relinquished the control of the kiss to the other man whilst he kept his hands moving as well. He wrestled the shirt away from James and the man paused the kiss long enough for that to happen, but James didn't have the patience for this to be anything more than a quick, hard fuck. Matthew read that quickly.

He moved back into the locker, enjoying the coolness now that the heat was almost unbearable with James' kisses and his right hand tweaking his right nipple and the left hand daftly bringing Matthew's cock into full erection. Matthew knew, that as desperate as the man was, James was always a considerate lover and that James could only find satisfaction, if his lover was satisfied too. Whilst Matthew, he can recall, hadn't been so kind with the other man.

“Do you have-” James started, but Matthew didn't bother let him finish as he claimed those lips in a kiss and moved the two of them until he could reach into his locker. He stumbled around a bit, but found the lube in the corner of the top shelf in the locker. Whilst he wasn't prone to having sexual encounters in the locker rooms, it wasn't... unusual either. He pressed the bottle into James' hand and moved so that they were against yet another locker.

Matthew kissed James long and hard as James rhythmically stroked him and moaned into the kiss, his approval. Matthew didn't touch James. It wasn't his hands that James needed, that much was clear, but the hot heat that Matthew could offer, and a hard body that James couldn't hurt accidentally? That was something the 008 agent could do. With the last hard kiss, Matthew tuned around in James' arms till he was facing the locker.

Matthew leaned his left arm into the locker and laid his forehead on it as he struggled to get his breathing back to normal and with his other hand, continued to stroke himself lazily as he parted his legs in a clear invitation. James took it. Within seconds, Matthew felt the lubed fingers at his entrance, circle just once before he felt the heat of the blunt fingers making entry.

It had been a while and since 00s rarely bottomed, preferring to be sexually dominant than otherwise, it was almost foreign, but it wasn't new. Matthew took a deep breath and relaxed the best he could and took the second finger in his strides. He had known that James wouldn't have the patience for a long prep and from the moment he had been pushed into the locker and kissed, had known it would end up with him feeling it for hours, if not days.

The third finger slipped through and Matthew let out a groan. Somehow, James had managed to hit that perfect place between pain and pleasure in Matthew and what with most 00s having a fucked up sense of pleasure anyway, it was almost enough to send Matthew over the edge. He held himself tightly to prevent such fate and waited. The fingers left him quickly enough and Matthew took a deep breath and released it just as he felt the blunt head against his entrance.

No condom, Matthew thought with a little sight in his head. It was going to be messy. They both knew that they were clean. 00's, especially those like James, took extreme care when it came to sex and Matthew knew that he could rely on the professionalism of the other man. Besides, they were all tested when they returned from the field and given medications to prevent contraction of anything even if they had. With those countermeasures, Matthew knew that he could trust the other man.

Still, the entry burned and Matthew raised his head so that he could bite into his own arm to stifled the pained moan. He fought against his instincts to tense up against the pain and relaxed into it instead, letting James enter him in one smooth stroke. Matthew stroked himself a little more to fight the pain and revelled in the tight grip 007 had around his lips. They were going to leave bruises.

James moaned into Matthew's back as he stilled his movements to allow both of them to adjust to the invasion. When he could, Matthew rolled his head back so that it would rest against James' shoulder and let out a soft moan that got the other man moving.

“So fucking hot.” James commented as he began to draw his hips back and slam into Matthew, in a move that had Matthew crying out despite his best intentions and rocking backwards. It _was_ hot, and raw and the heat was building up just a little too fast. James was no beginner even to male to male sex and he was hitting all the right places to make Matthew squirm in the most delicious ways, Even though the entry wasn't exactly painless and even now he was a little too tight, Matthew could feel his eyes starting to roll back into his head as the pleasure built up.

“Fuck James. Fuck.” Matthew managed just before he spilt over his own hand and moaned as James tightened his hold around Matthew's waist and holding him up, brutally ripped his own orgasm out of himself. Matthew felt the heat rushing inside of him and moaned as his sensitive body shivered at it all. James rested a moment, leaning Matthew against the locker and leaning in to rest his forehead against Matthew's sweaty back.

“Matt, I'm-” James started, his breathing still harsh and his voice husky. Matthew laughed, interrupting what was no doubt, an apology. But Matthew didn't need to hear it. Besides, Matthew could recall with crystal details what he had done to James Bond, not 8 months ago. He hadn't even apologised or ask, but basically fucked the man raw, not even realising that the other man was bleeding. James hadn't fought back or even protested, but simply took it all and later, held him until Matthew could let out all the emotions that had built up without him even being aware. Something no psychiatrist could have done.

“That was... hot. Besides, no blood, no foul right?” Matthew asked with a tongue in cheek expression as he turned his head to face the other man. James laughed a little, but there was a hint of fragility in that voice. Whilst Matthew had needed the violent fuck and a hug afterwards to sort out his issues, it was plain to see that whilst the sex had worked out the frustrated sexual energy and anger out of him, a hug was hardly going to help this particular man.

“I am sorry though.” James said as he slipped out and both of them breathed in sharply. James fixed himself up whilst Matthew simply turned around and leaned his back against the locker, breathing in deeply and feeling the cum leaking from his entrance with every breath he took. Matthew sighed at the feeling.

“Well, I do have to take another shower. Perhaps you would like to make it up to me?” Matthew asked with a tongue and cheek expression and James smiled a little, though it didn't reach his eyes. The other man did nod though and stripped down. Matthew did the calculations in his head. Whilst 007 never did repeat conquests, it was somehow different between them. Whilst it was sex to civilians and they would see it as something intimate, for them, it was almost the same as going to a firing range to work out frustration. For James in particular, it was exactly that. Because for him, sex was a weapon just like a gun and it was a weapon that James wielded very, very well.

“You could at least clean up your own mess.” Matthew continued and walked back towards the showers, knowing that James would follow and that they could enjoy the afterglow, which would allow James to work out his guilt for this little incident.

Then Matthew could drag him down to the gun range and take his mind off whatever was causing 007 so much anguish in the first place, with some well placed hints about his firearms proficiencies and friendly competition. Matthew sincerely hoped that Alec was still downstairs. He wasn't quite sure if he can deal with an emotional 007 on his own. Even _with_ sex as an option.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

Fuck.

Q thought numbly as he sat in the Control Centre. The waft of cold air conditioning air that had rushed through him with 007 leaving his office did nothing to dissipate the scent of sex in the air or to brush away the heat that was still lingering on his skin. Q's hand mindlessly went to stroke the neck that not ten minutes ago, had been held by one of the most deadly hands in the world. Yet, Q had felt safe in a way he never did.

Now, 007, one of the most intelligent and sharp agents in the whole of damned MI6 knew that. And Q knew better than to think that 007 was going to leave that information alone. Q felt the annoyance build up to anger and hit the arm of his chair with his fist before he knew what he was doing. He had planned this. He had worked on this goddamned plan for good ten years and he's fucked it up. Fuck, fuck fuck, Q thought as he let the anger rush out.

Q had fought long and hard to hide all the trails. He had made sure that nothing could link him to the agent. He had made sure that despite his desires, despite all the years of longing, Q hadn't let any of that show. That he made sure that the other man remained oblivious. But what had happened with 009 and his own demons being so close to the surface made Q drop his guard in a way he hadn't meant to.

When 007 had wrapped his hand around his neck, Q had frankly panicked. In fact, if there had been a weapon nearby, he would have reached for it. But the moment the heat had sunk in and he heard his voice, Q's body had relaxed in spite of it all. Even the hint of violence didn't stop Q's body from relaxing in those hands. And from relaxation, with all the right buttons triggered, Q couldn't stop his body from going into something... more.

Q swore colourfully as he raised the fan speed in his office to suck out the air and changed the glass back to clear. He had work to do. Work that would benefit from his clear mind and expertise. His colleagues needed him to focus and that was what he was going to do. Then he was going to go home, have a cold, cold shower and try not to remember the way that James Bond's hand had felt against his skin, or the way the air had tasted in his mouth.

But before all of that, Q was going to have to make sure that 007 could not make the connections that Q needed him _not_ to make. Because if nothing else, Q knew 007. He understood him, from the first moment they had met. Q knew that he was not going to enjoy what would happen when 007 found out their connections and the end result was going to be bloody and dirty in ways that Q simply did not want to think about.

So, Q did what he did best and double checked the work he had done 10 years ago to the MI6 system. Everything was just as he had left it and there was no way, Q figured, that the other man could work anything out with the limited information. Still, it was a matter of time, but it was time that Q could control. When that was done, Q took a deep breath and focused his attention back on Moscow and bringing 009 home.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

8 November 2012.

 

“Yes of course Mr Prime Minister. Perhaps I will see you at Downing Street next week? Till then.” Mycroft Holmes said into the phone, his voice clipped in that diplomatic manner, as it always was when he talked politics. The false warmth was on both sides of the conversation. To the Prime Minister, the Holmes was a thorn in his side that he had to deal with, a thorn that was loyal to no one but the Crown. A problem, at times, as far as he was concerned. To Mycroft Holmes? The Prime Minister was just another pawn on the chess board.

It was late at night and as Mycroft hung up the phone, he could feel the exhaustion beginning to creep up on him. It was – 12:33am, Mycroft noted. His dear wife, a woman he did not love nor love him back, but had a close understanding with, and their children had long gone to bed. Later, he would retire into his own bedroom and wake up to her voice and a soft kiss on his cheeks but nothing more.

It made their relationship a workable one. They married for political purposes and both of them had always known what they were walking into. As long as Clariss kept her relationship with the children's nanny quiet and the children unaware of the situation, Mycroft did not care. At the same time, Clariss made sure that the children were well taken care of, loved and ensured that she was discrete when it came to his own affairs. They showed real affection to each other in front of the children and in front of the public but they were nothing more than friends. It worked.

Mycroft looked away from the computer screen and the paperwork that had arrived for him less than two hours ago and found himself perhaps little more tired and a little more stressed than usual. Perhaps politics was a younger man's game, Mycroft thought for just a second before he scoffed at his own thoughts. Politics is what Mycroft was born to play, just like his other brothers had their games to play. It was written in their DNA.

“Sir, perhaps you would like a distraction?” Andrea, or was it Andromeda this week? asked as she entered the room, closing the door behind herself and failing to knock like always. But then, Andrea was almost as a part of Mycroft's office as he was. Mycroft had to admit, he had made one hell of a decision when he had picked Andrea up from the streets. She had been a precocious thing, trying to make a living and knowing _exactly_ what she was getting herself into. Even at age 15, she had been vivacious, clever and used her beauty like a weapon.

Mycroft had sent her to the best boarding schools in Switzerland, then to university at Cambridge studying law and computer sciences, and by the time she had graduated, she had picked up her own skills in martial arts, firearms training and secretarial work. Even before Mycroft could make the suggestion, she had sacked both his bodyguard and his secretary and took over the position as if it was due to her. It had been almost 7 years since she had began the work and Mycroft could honestly say that he had no complaints.

“Careful Andrea, other people may think you inappropriate.” Mycroft told her with a soft smile that she returned. Andrea came to his desk and laid down two folders in front of him, taking the other folders with her. The folders were neatly marked 'Sherlock Holmes' and 'Oscar Holmes'. Mycroft gave her a wide smile as he settled back into his chair.

“Just what I needed. Thank you.” He told her as she smiled softly and exited the room, closing the door behind herself. Whilst he would always tell Sherlock that checking upon his brothers caused him more headaches and stress than otherwise, Mycroft had to admit that finding out how his brothers were doing usually helped him to relax. It was a welcome distraction from his work.

Mycroft checked the first file and tutted as he noted that the annoyance that had been keeping his brother's full attention was starting to become a real danger, not just to his brother but to the man that kept his brother grounded. That would not do, Mycroft thought as he reminded himself to devote a little more attention to the whole Moriarty situation than he had before. Besides, if it was starting to get this out of control, than Sherlock alone wasn't going to be able to handle it. He didn't have the resources. Mycroft did.

Still, from what Mycroft could see, Sherlock _was_ doing better despite everything. He wasn't slipping into the depressive stages as often as he had been before and from what his watchers were reporting, Sherlock wasn't doing any drugs other than nicotine patches. John Watson was even better influence than Mycroft himself had given him credit for.

Mycroft looked over the last few photographs of his brother and wrote instructions to Andrea outlining the resources he wanted her to utilise in dealing with the Moriarty problem. Or at least be preparing to deal with the Moriarty situation.

With that, Mycroft closed the file and turned his attention to the second file. Oscar Holmes. Mycroft didn't have much. With his brother's expertise being what it was, it was nay impossible for Mycroft to do any sort of electronic surveillance as he managed with Sherlock, which, in Mycroft's opinion, was highly unfair since he knew that Oscar watched both of them through the cameras of London. He knew when cameras wound focus on him and would remain so until he acknowledged it. It was likely the same with Sherlock.

Still, Oscar refused to allow the same on himself and what with Oscar working for MI6 and working deep in the depths of their hallways and emerging from the depths only now and then to go to his flat, Mycroft's men were having difficulty keeping an eye on him. Still, they had managed a few photographs of the younger Holmes. Most of the photographs had caught the young man as he was returning home, or on the way to work, if the pho

Mycroft frowned as he noted the dark circles under the young man's eyes, the way the younger man's clothes hung off of his body and the overall haggard appearance. Mycroft also noted that the eyes that were usually vibrant green or hazelnut brown with some sort of excitement was dull with exhaustion. Mycroft picked up the phone and dialled the familiar number of his brother's mobile. It didn't pick up and went to voicemail straight away.

Mycroft knew, that with his brother's work for MI6, that his phone is likely in a location that did not allow him to have signal, MI5 had a similar set up, but he also couldn't allow his brother to continue the way he was doing. None of the Holmes were particularly good at taking care of themselves. But Mycroft had both Clariss and Andrea to take care of him, especially meet his physical needs. Sherlock had John and whilst he still neglected to eat and sleep regularly, he was clearly making an conscious effort to ensure that he stays healthy enough for their physical activities. Not that Mycroft knew _anything_ about that.

Oscar though, he was running himself absolutely into the wall and whilst he had that capability all Holmes' seemed to have, to stay awake and work without needing sleep or food, the youngest Holmes was going to find himself collapsing into a heap sooner than later and Mycroft had no intentions of letting that happen. On that note, Mycroft dialled the extension just outside of his door. Instead of picking up the phone, Andrea stepped into the office.

“Yes sir?” She asked, her head cocking sideways with the question. Andrea probably already knew what he wanted, Mycroft thought slyly. She always seemed to know. Still, he voiced it as a request, not for the first time, he had to admit. He was just lucky that his assistant was so talented.

“I need to talk to my darling little brother. Perhaps you can all the Q Branch of MI6?” Mycroft asked and she smiled as she understood what he meant. 10 years ago, when Oscar had told him under no uncertain terms, that he would be joining MI6, Mycroft hadn't protested. He hadn't even made an attempt to dissuade him.

In fact, he spoke to M and told her that his brother would be joining and their ranks and that he expected a Holmes to be well protected within their walls. She had agreed, but she had flatly declined to take Oscar without testing him on his own merits. And when Oscar did join their ranks, Mycroft refused to talk to M or anyone else within MI6, about his brother. In fact, the old M was the only one that had known about Oscar and now, the new M.

It was impossible to hide the fact that there was a Holmes within the ranks of MI6 itself, but it was possible to hide who that Holmes was and Mycroft knew that his brother took on a new name when he joined MI6 and better, he ensured that even he was unaware of that name. He also made sure that whilst he kept track of generally where his brother worked and thus his safety, that was as far as he went with the 'meddling'. Oscar didn't need him in the way that Sherlock did and in fact, given their positions, it was better for them to know less than more.

“Of course sir. It will just be a minute.” Andrea said as she came back into the office with her tablet in her hand. As he had assumed, Andrea had already hacked into MI6. Knowing her, she would have worked the programming she had used to get into the system, into the MI6 firewalls program itself to ensure that she would not be detected. She would have prepared for this for weeks before, Mycroft knew and was grateful for it.

“If you pick up the phone sir, it will link it directly to MI6.” Andrea told him and Mycroft smiled as he heard the dial tone. There was no need for it to ring of course, since Andrea wasn't calling a phone but MI6's communication system itself, but Mycroft did enjoy the drama of it. Through the lines of communication she had opened, Mycroft could hear the panicked voices and allowed the final ring to go through.

“Hello brother.” Mycroft said with some delight and sincerely hoped he hadn't gotten his brother fired. Mummy would not approve.

*#*#*#*#*#*#


	5. Fifth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q's quiet (but busy) day to day at MI6 gets interrupted, messed up... then promptly falls headlong into fucked up territory. All thanks to his well meaning but ultimately troublesome brothers. 
> 
> After all, the Holmes family doesn't do anything by half measures right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spent the whole 4 days off writing and reading. The plan to go to the gym went out the window with chills and aches... so! More updates, writing and listening to epic music. 
> 
> Enjoy folks and if I can, there will be more updates during the rest of the week (depending on work). Please throw in the kudos and comments! (I should stop begging for them really). Also... looking for britpickers and betas. Anyone game?

 8 November 2012

 

The Quartermaster of MI6 looked up, just like every else did when the sound first began. It wasn't an alarm. Their alarms were unique, designed to beak into the thoughts of every single person in the Q Branch. This sounded more like a phone, ringing. A phone that was clearly not _meant_ to be ringing through the Q Branch's communication systems.

 

Ring. Ring. Ring.

 

By the second and third ring and come through, most of the more alert and faster technicians Q had, was scrambling on their computers. Q turned his attention to the side console even as he spoke calmly as he could to 004.

 

“I am working on the safe situation 004. Perhaps you should ready yourself for the inevitable gun fight?” Q suggested and smiled, despite the situation as the experienced voice of 004 told him to fuck off in a good natured way and laughed. Q disconnected that mic and turned his attention to his hackers.

 

“Continue working on breaching the safe. Spider, I want to know where you are on that intel for 005 in two minutes. Bishop, start a trace on the intruder and-” Q started, but stopped just as the ringing sound stopped and with it, the Q Branch. Then he heard a voice that he had never expected.

 

“Hello brother.” Q swore in his head as much as he could even as his fingers moved as fast as they could to, first cut off the connection of the outer line to the numerous mics set up within the Q Branch, including the ones that the personnel would be wearing. Since their arrangements meant that Mycroft weren't to know exactly what Q's role was, the last thing he needed was for his brother to hear him barking orders.

 

It had been one hell of 2 days and Q was running on no sleep at all and very little food. The same could be said for most of his hackers and Rose was passed out on his couch. Or she had been. Apparently the ringing sound had woken her up and she was moving towards where some of the best hackers Q had left, were hacking into a safe 004 was currently trapped inside of.

 

“Rose, take control of the safe situation for 004. Spider, 005 needs that information if she is going to take action. That means as soon as humanly possible. Bishop, help Rose. And clear the Control Centre. Please.” Q asked and they obeyed directly. If there was one thing that Q genuinely liked about the staff in Q Branch, was the fact that they, unlike any other branch, ran solely on ability. Not on politics and they took Q's leadership only because they approved of his genius, nothing else.

 

“Perhaps you should route this to a more... personal platform, dear brother?” Mycroft suggested through the loud speaker still and Q grimaced as he quickly worked to route the call to his own earpiece. It only took him a few seconds, but Q was sweating by the end of it. He was far too exhausted to deal with something like this, he thought with some menace, against the beautiful and talented Andrea.

 

“Sir, should I have Bishop trac-” Rose began to ask, poking her head through the door, but Q shook his head firmly, glad that he hadn't yet activated the mic on the ear piece. Rose was technically 'R', his second in command and Q knew that he owed her an explanation, but it would have to come later.

 

“No Rose. It's my brother. I'll fix the firewalls once I talk to him.” He told Rose and watched as the question formed, but she didn't ask as she left the room. Q sighed as he flopped down onto the chair of the computer at the centre of the Control Centre and turned his mic on and began to monitor the work being done to assist 004 and 005, one in Beijing and the other in Honolulu out of all places.

 

“That was childish Mick. You could have used a phone. A landline even.” Q told him without any real anger in his voice. Whilst he really could have done without his brother's assistant hacking into his system, it would show him some of the weaknesses in his system and he always appreciated that. And if he was being honest, it was good to hear his brother's voice for the first time in almost 6 months.

 

“Your mobile phone was unavailable and as for your landline, just who would I ask for?” Mycroft asked drily and Q smiled at the tone. There was concern there, the kind that an older brother has for the younger brother he had almost raised himself. And with it, the curiosity that Mycroft would never voice and Q would never satisfy, but nonetheless existed because they were Holmes.

 

“Fair point. Are you doing well?” Q asked as he typed a few commands to assist in breaking into the safe 004 was trapped in. Q knew that Mycroft did not want to know what Q was doing at Q Branch, or indeed within MI6. As long as he remained off the field and safe, Mycroft had promised not to ask and Q in return, did not ask what Mycroft's role was when it came to the Royals. It was a burden that he knew that the head of the Holmes family traditionally carried and one that he had no wishes to know. All he knew was that Mycroft's reach in political terms could be used to turn MI6 upside down and that M was terrified of him.

 

“I am and before you ask, so is your sister in law and the twins. I am more worried about you. You look like a discarded walking stick brother.” Mycroft told him with disdain and Q laughed a little at the tone and the careful phrasing. When Q had joined MI6, Mycroft had told him to take a new name and to ensure that no one in the family knew that name, because if being a Holmes made him a target, being a Holmes with MI6 secrets made him a beacon. So even though the two occasionally talked, no real names were ever mentioned.

 

“I am fine. I can take care of myself you know.” Q said as he continued to type, keeping the conversation in one area of his brain whilst the other brain coded as he always did, the work he was doing, integrating with the work being done by Spider's team. They followed his lead as he jumped in and the code smoothed itself out, attacking the firewalls surrounding the safe's locking mechanisms. Q also ignored the fact that his brother still had people watching him when they could. It was the only way that Mycroft knew how to care and Q wasn't about to begrudge him that.

 

“You need to eat and rest even when you are busy. I would hate to find out you have collapsed from lack of nutrition.” Mycroft commented and Q let himself smile a little at the concern. Despite his age and the fact that Mycroft had twins of his own to worry about, it was clear that to Mycroft, Q would always be the brother that he had held in his sleep or the one that Mycroft had fed himself when their nanny had been too busy dealing with Sherlock's messes.

 

“Surely you didn't just call to remind me to eat and sleep.” Q suggested. Chances were, that was precisely why his brother _had_ called, but Mycroft probably had an underlying concern that he knew he could raise with Q. A concern Q had a sneaking suspicion about. Mycroft sighed.

 

“I was going to let MI5 handle it, but your expertise may come in handy. As long as you can remain safely behind the scenes, that is.” Mycroft said, concern clear. It probably had to do with the fact that he had always been sickly as a child, but Mycroft had an irrational protective instinct when it came to Q, one that he most definitely did not have when it came to Sherlock. Q sighed but agreed.

 

“Moriarty?” Q asked as he input the final codes in and allowed his technicians to finish the assault and began disengaging the lock heads of the safe. He knew that Rose would guide 004 from there and focused his attention instead on the hacking job they were doing on the computer systems of a well known drug dealer in Honolulu, for 005.

 

“Moriarty.” Mycroft confirmed and Q sat up a little straighter in his chair. He had always thought that the game Sherlock played with Moriarty was dangerous. Especially because even though Sherlock could only see the national picture of the crime organisation, Q could see outside of it. Q was simply privy to more information than Sherlock was and he had known that this moment was coming.

 

“He has become a true threat then?” Q asked quietly, thinking of the possible routes he could take. He hadn't done an extensive search on the man and he hadn't mapped out the computer world of his organisation or track the bank accounts yet. He had a general idea of where everything was, but nothing substantial. Once he could get the information ready though, there was very little Q wouldn't be able to do.

 

“Their game is coming to a head and I believe that some serious harm may come to either our brother or those around him.” Mycroft's tone was as casual as if he was discussing the weather, but Q read the concern underneath it.

 

“What would you like me to do?” Q asked, even though he knew exactly why Mycroft was approaching him with the problem. Q, or rather Oscar Holmes and Mycroft Holmes, got along well. The two of them understood their capabilities and had understood where their geniuses lay, early. They had come to terms with who they were early too. Sherlock hadn't. Whilst the two of them settled down and began to work in their particular areas, Sherlock was left floundering, trying to find his own niche, if you will. It took him nearly 5 years for him to find it and 10 years to work within that field.

 

Sherlock had always hated the two of them for the ease in which they had come to their realisations. On top of that, whilst Sherlock had fostered closeness with Oscar through the small gap between their ages and the fact that despite the differences, Oscar understood his genius, Sherlock had no such connections with Mycroft. Sherlock's genius when it came to biology and human mind was not something that was compatible, in Sherlock's mind at least, with economics and politics. Oscar disagreed, but knew better than to expect the two to get along after so long.

 

“Keep an eye on the situation. If he requires it, please assist him. You know he will never come to me for help.” Mycroft said, but Q heard the unspoken, 'but he will come to you'. Q nodded and agreed. Sherlock would not hesitate to turn up at Q's flat and demand that Q help him with something. He would never do that to Mycroft. In fact, Q was certain that Sherlock would rather die than reach out to Mycroft for assistance, the stubborn git.

 

“I know. I'll keep an eye on him and let you know what's happening. I'll leave Andrea with a landline you can call next time. If I am in the office and in the position to answer, I will.” Q told him as he cut both the line and closed the loophole Andrea had used to get into his systems. It took Q a good twenty minutes to finish it up and by the time he had, the mini crisis he had with the safe situation and the intelligence 005 had required was all done.

 

Q leaned back in his chair and considered his options. He could begin his background search on Moriarty and his organisation now, but he was exhausted and so was a majority of his branch. With so many of the hackers already out for the count, Q needed to make sure that he would at least, be available. Which meant that he needed to rest, close to the office. He sighed as he made his way towards the couch.

 

Rose would be up for a little while now and Q could rest up in the mean time. When he was more awake and had a cup of earl grey, perhaps he could think about Moriarty again and just what he could do to ensure that his brother made through without any scars, unlike him.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

9 November 2012

 

The rhythmic sound of shots being fired was relaxing, James found, as he took in a deep breath and steadied the weapon in his hand before he pulled his finger back. The trigger on the Glock 22 was heavy and the recoil was substantial as the .40 Smith & Western round left the barrel and pierced the paper target, dead set in the heart. James let the trigger go only until the trigger reset engaged and squeezed the trigger one more time, making the hole a little bigger before he lowered the gun.

 

The Glock always felt a little small in his large hand, but he did like it for the anonymity that it offered. With the gun being standard issue to most law enforcement agencies around the world and thus widely available, James found himself reverting to it even with the personalised Walther he carried these days. He wasn't the only one, James noted as Alec and Matthew too practised with the Glock.

 

Once all the shots were fired, they stepped back from the firing line, almost together and took off their hearing and eye protections before they pushed the buttons to pull the targets towards them. James pulled the magazine out of the gun and cleared the weapon by racking it three times and leaving it open. The others did the same before they examined their targets. James' shots were all focused at the centre body mess, with two shots he had fired at each shoulder being the only outliers.

 

Alec, on the other hand, had concentrated all of his shots at the poor target's crotch and another to where the target's mouth would be, if the blank paper targets had faces to go along with their human outline and hand holding a gun. Matthew, who was apparently even more bored than Alec, had elected to draw a smiley face on the target, exactly where the two eyes and mouth should be.

 

“Is it two weeks yet?” Matthew asked, looking over the paper and shaking his own head as if he could not believe he had been reduced to such acts to fight the boredom. Alec on the other hand seemed to admire his own work for a moment before he tore it into pieces and chucked the remains towards the bin. James left his target where it was. Chances were, their shooting practice was coming to an end. The three of them, not to mention 009 who had joined them for an hour or so, had sighted _all_ the weapons they could possibly end up using in the next couple of months.

 

“Got two days left.” Alec answered as he flopped down onto the bench at the end of the firing range. No one dared to mention that 2 weeks up didn't mean that they were going to get a mission at the end of that. They tried not to have too many 00s in the field at the same time, especially not with new missions. James bit his lips and turned his attention to his Glock.

They had to clean all the guns they had fired. They had been offered, by a rather green and easily impressed agent or two that they would be happy to clean the legendary 00 agent's guns, but the offer was refused quite firmly by all four of them. A dirty weapon or a weapon that's alignment got screwed over during the cleaning of it, could be very, very bad to any agent. None of the 00s even trusted each other to clean their weapons.

 

“Fuck that. I can't do this.” Matthew said as he started to pull his rifle apart. James had to agree. The inaction was starting to irk them all. 00s weren't meant to get into a routine. Certainly not a daily one. Except they had formed a routine of coming into MI6, meeting at the gym for the morning workout, beating the shit out of each other and then working out the kinks with the weights and cardio, then having lunch in the nearby restaurants before hitting the gun range. Its usually where they went their separate ways, but still. They had a routine. And routines were not good for 00s. It got them killed.

 

“Yeah. If they don't send me out soon, I'm going to send myself out. With a target I'm going to randomly choose from the terrorist data base.” Alec said as he put the pieces of his glock 20 back together after it had been thoroughly cleaned. James, who had been smart enough to clean as he went, finished up with the Glock and packed all the guns into their bags before he hauled it all onto his right shoulder and stood up.

 

“Choose one near a tropical beach and I will come with you.” James stated and walked out of the range. He heard the laughter as he left and shook his head to himself. James had to admit, he was feeling a little stir crazy too, but he was feeling it a lot less than the others, he supposed, because of the problem that kept him up at night.

 

The Quartermaster.

 

Even with the gun in his hand, his shoulders flinching with the recoil of the rifles, James had been thinking about the Quartermaster. There was something amiss and James very well couldn't leave it alone. James had always known, from their first meeting at the damned gallery, that the young man was interested in him, sexually. But he hadn't thought it anything more than that, interest. Except, now James knew more.

 

His casual questions to the other 00s had revealed exactly what he had thought. The Quartermaster avoided touch. In fact, as Alec put it, when he had tried to help the younger man with something, the Quartermaster had actually backed away from stop the contact from happening. Alec, being sharp and intuitive, had ensured from that point that he never touched the young man. Matthew, had said that he had brushed up against the younger man and the Quartermaster had tensed up to the point he had pierced his own skin with his nails.

 

But with Bond, the Quartermaster initiated the physical contacts, letting their hands meet when he gave the agent equipment, or leaning his shoulder against James when they were standing side by side. There had never been a hint of tension from the other man that James had ever felt or seen, except for the times that the Quartermaster hadn't known that it was James.

 

The moment he did though, the Quartermaster had relaxed into James' touches, as if his body had no other choice but to do so. James found it inexplicably odd that the young man could have such a strong physical reaction to James if they the gallery had been their first meeting. There was something else, James just knew it and James had been raking his brain for the last couple of days trying to figure it out.

 

James thought back to all of his missions since he had joined MI6 and tried to remember if he had ever met the Quartermaster before, on the field. He came up empty and for the life of him, James couldn't think of what the connection could have been. It was a puzzle that was deep enough, interesting enough to keep the mundane at bay and James had to admit, he was rather grateful for the distraction.

 

Still, James thought, such a distraction wasn't something he could afford whilst he was on mission and knowing M, all of them were going to be going on long term and difficult missions as soon as the two weeks was officially over and James needed an answer. On that note, James smirked to himself as he rerouted himself from the armoury to the Q Branch. Again.

 

After all, James knew for certain, one person that knew the answer to the question. And whilst the Quartermaster was doing a fantastic job holding the answer back, James had just opened his bag of tricks and he couldn't wait to try all of them on the young man.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#*

 

11 November 2012

 

“Tell me.” 007 demanded as Q did what he could to ignore him. Q was settled down in front of the main computer and the screen was rapidly moving as usual. The MI6 was getting ready for some of the bigger missions that would take 006 and 008 into the field and the one that had been on the back burner would probably take 007 to the field too. Not a moment too soon, Q thought, but he didn't voice the thought as the 00 agent laid a firm hand on Q's chair.

 

“Tell you what 007?” Q asked, his voice firm, but even with the current situation, he couldn't keep himself from feeling anything but safe and protected with the 00 agent being so close by. Almost instinctively, Q's body wanted to lean towards the other man's and it was impossible to be tense around him. So, Q concentrated instead on the work. He had intelligence packages to put together for the two 00s that would be going off to Afghanistan shortly on a merry chase after a master bomb maker.

 

“The name of the person that hurt you, Quartermaster. Surely that genius brain of yours remembers that.” 007 said, turning Q's chair around until he could no longer focus on the work and instead had to look into the icy blue eyes of the 00 agent. Q wished that he could feel afraid of the deadliness in the depths of those eyes or at the knowledge that the 00 agent had killed countless men with the bare hands that were coming to rest on Q's face.

 

“Someone hurt you Quartermaster. Badly enough for your brain to link all human touch with pain and danger. I want that name.” 007 demanded again, but Q simply shook his head and turned his chair back to the way it was. Luckily, the agent didn't stop the movement, but he didn't leave either. For the last week, 007 had been coming down to the Q Branch, near the same time, to ask in various ways, the same question.

 

Whilst Q knew that 007 had made a connection, he never asked Q about their first meeting, the one that Q doubted 007 would ever remember. Instead, 007 asked for the name of the person that had harmed Q and Q refused to answer every time. Because Q knew that despite it all, 007 had decided to include him in the small group he considered his friends and family and Q knew just what 007 was capable of if he believed one of them harmed.

 

“It's not yours to have 007.” Q said as coldly as he could, but it failed to even sound distant. Ja- 007 seemed to read that, because he stepped in close again, turning Q's chair around to face him again.

 

“Why are you protecting him?” There is no heat and there isn't any anger from what Q can hear, but he knows better. After all, Q had been the one to delete the footage of 007 and 008 in the changing rooms at the gym only short moments after the confrontation between 007 and himself. Whilst Q couldn't understand fully what had happened, he had heard the apology 007 made and knew that whatever it was had been triggered by whatever had happened between the two of them.

 

“I'm not.” Q said quietly as he tiredly rubbed his eyes. He didn't want to set 007 off again and he had been fine for the last week, but it was clear to anyone that 007 was losing his patience. But Q also couldn't give 007 the name, knowing that 007 with his brilliant mind would make all the connections. Q really didn't want the fallout of _that_ situation.

 

“You were hurt. Not just physically. I-” 007 started, his eyes narrow and cold in a way that Q knew meant that the man was distancing himself so that he could ask the hard questions and not give into the emotions that would cloud his judgement and stop him before he could hurt Q. Q's eyes opened wide in response and he calculated the response he should give to stop him in his tracks.

 

“Stop.” Q said, letting his voice shake a little, not with deception but the true fear that always came unbidden when he recalled the events that had brought the two of them together, events that he hoped 007 would never remember. It seemed to do the trick and 007 seemed to-

 

Q found himself distracted momentarily from the conversation by what was happening in one of the small screens off to the side. It was the screen he had set up to monitor Sherlock and the happenings with Moriarty. For the past few hours, it had been showing Sherlock's flat, but now the camera was zooming up, to where the roof was and Q pushed 007 aside and focused on the screen.

 

Even before he could think about what was happening, all Q could see was the-

 

“No. No. No.” Q heard being uttered and wondered where the sound was coming from as the camera refocused and pulled back to its original position. It had taken all but a few seconds. Q could see the drama happening underneath the roof now, with the ambulances and police and all of that but-

 

“Q!” The sharp voice brought Q out of his thoughts and turned his attention away from the screen to the man who was holding his shoulder and calling his name. Q looked into the pair of glacial blue eyes and took a shuddering deep breath and then he was moving.

 

Q rushed over to his personal computer and found where he had thrown his phone He picked it up with hands shaking so badly it took him three tries to unlock the screen and dialled the third number on the list. It rang and rang and rang with no answer. It went to voice mail and Q bit back the cry. Q tasted the copper taste of panic and blood in his mouth as he worried his lower lip and dialled the second number on the list. It answered within seconds.

 

“Did you see it.” Q asked as soon as the voice answered and Mycroft assented. Shit. Q swore as he sat down numbly in his chair and looked blankly at the computer screen. His mind felt empty, blank and Q didn't know what to do. His brain, as if it was trying to comfort him, went through all the images it had of Sherlock. Ending with the way Sherlock's coat had fluttered as he fell, his brown curls pushed back with the force of the -

 

“This can't be real. You know this can't be real.” Q said into the phone with a determined tone as his mind began to swarm with ideas and thoughts. Q looked at the screen of his computer again and then at the other man in the room. Q looked at 007 and knew that having him would ground Q. But there were certain things that Q simply was not ready for the 00 agent to know and this was most definitely one of them.

 

“I need to work 007. Perhaps you would like to inform 008 and 006 that they will be required for mission in the next 12 hours? You should also prepare. I have a mission for you and it should be ready in less than 26 hours.” Q said and this time, he managed to make his voice distant and factual. 007's eyes narrowed with suspicion and there was concern in those eyes, but Q ignored it as the agent took the dismissal for what it was and walked out of the room, leaving Q with the footage of Sherlock's fall and Mycroft's voice on the other line.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#  


	6. Sixth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q plans and MI6 finds itself at war with a genius criminal mind... whether it likes it or not. 
> 
> Or in which M finds out just how much trouble having a Holmes as the Quartermaster of MI6 can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. Shit, shit day at work... and apparently my chosen method of de-stressing is... watching hit counter go up on my fic, whilst drowning myself in alcohol, developing lung cancer and listening to Adele. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy and for any and all peeps out there having a bad day - I am drinking on your behalf! 
> 
> Probably will have no update tomorrow (finishing at 4 am probably means I will be unconscious even before the computer starts up) but will definitely have something in two days or so! 
> 
> P.S. Comments and Kudos are appreciated! (as is criticism, always)

12 November 2012 

Q rubbed his dry eyes and felt the sting. He had shut everyone out of the Control Centre of MI6 and had been working through the night. He had been up for close to 69 hours now and it was slowly beginning to effect him. But the adrenalin, the panic and the sheer emotional roller-coaster was doing wonders, keeping Q awake and working. 

“Check the trajectory again Oscar. Something is off.” Mycroft said, the name slipping from his lips with the exhaustion. The two of them had been studying the footage non stop for the last 5 hours. With the emotional trauma, the whole situation was even more draining than usual. Mycroft had his people out in the field double checking everything, from Moriarty's body to Sherlock's and he and Q had been looking at everything else. 

“I know. I can see it.” Q said as he did the calculations again, factoring in the second camera covering the flat from the corner of the street. As he did so, Q also received the results for the enhancement of the footage and put both of them up on the screen. Q had long since turned the glass between him and the rest of the Q Branch opaque and had been working on the main computer. 

He needed the processing power if he was to make sure that the intelligence package got finished even as he worked on Sherlock and image enhancement took a lot of processing power. The image and the trajectory calculations showed Q exactly what he had hoped he would see. For a second, as the realisation hit him, Q felt his world narrow and his vision tunnel as the relief hit quick and hard. He focused with difficulty. 

“Its not Sherlock. The mass is too heavy. He must have colluded with the ambulance personnel and the personnel at the morgue.” Q said with the relief palatable in his trembling voice. The person falling from the roof was most definitely a brunette and he even had the thin build like Sherlock, but he definitely didn't have the Holmes bone structure or the right coloured eyes. He was also a good 20 pounds heavier. The man had also been dead even before he fell from the roof. Well into rigour it seemed. 

“Good. Thank God. I'll keep a lid on that situation then and perhaps you can concentrate on finding the bastard?” Mycroft asked, exhaustion colouring his tone. Q nodded and felt it all catching upon him too now that he knew for certain that it hadn't been Sherlock. The relief that washed over him seemed to bring the exhaustion with it and Q found his eyes getting heavy and his head becoming light as the lack of rest and food caught up with him rapidly. 

“I will. I will let you know how it goes. Get some sleep and see to John will you?” Q asked, knowing that Mycroft would do so anyway. Whilst 'warm' was probably the last thing that Mycroft could manage, he will ensure that John eats and sleeps and ensure that the army officer stays as well as he could be given the circumstances. Both Q and Mycroft had been aware that Sherlock may fake his own death to protect John. But they hadn't realised that it would be so soon and that it would be forced by Moriarty. Except it had. Luckily, it seemed, their brother had seen it coming even if they hadn't. 

Q hung up the phone with Mycroft and rubbed his eyes again before he focused his attention on the data he had collected on Moriarty. As he had thought before, he had a few routes he could take. He could sit in the safety of his office and dismantle the computer networks and send the men bankrupt. That path meant that Q would remain safe, but the work would only be half done and it would leave his brother out in the cold. 

Q thought it all through as he logged onto the very little used twitter account he had set up a long time ago. Q was glad, but not too surprised when he saw a new tweet on the account. 

'Queen to D1, Bishop to D1.' 

The message was cryptic, but clear to Q. When they had been young and had been enamoured with the game of chess, Q had always preferred the Queen as his main piece. He had liked her freedom and her ability to dominate the chessboard and abhorred the King for his need to be protected. Sherlock had always preferred the Bishop and armed with that knowledge, Q sent the mission package for 008 off to M as an email and made his preparations. He knew where Sherlock was. 

With that in mind, Q quickly put the information he had on Moriarty together. Sitting within the confinements of the Q Branch was all well and good, but Sherlock had shown Q his hand. Sherlock was asking for his help and Q was determined that he would get it. All of it. Even if Q had to drag all of MI6 into the mess. 

*#*#*#*#*#*# 

12 November 2012

M raised his eyebrow when the Quartermaster of MI6 walked into his office. The young man looked like death warmed over and since M wondered for a second, just a split second, if the burden he had placed on the young man was too much. 

As M gestured for the Quartermaster to sit down and Q took it, M recalled the connection that had been made on the file. Holmes. It was a powerful name amongst those that were deep enough within the political game to know it. Not everyone did. It was a name that most feared and if not fear, then respected. M viewed the name with something akin to awe, especially because of the role the family played in relation to the Royal Family, if nothing else. 

“Sir, I have a personal request to make and I hope that you will be able to understand my position in relation to this particular... case.” The young Quartermaster said as he laid the file on M's desk. M reached for the file and read through it quickly, his eyebrow rising up as far as they can go when he was through with the file. He assessed the young man even as he swore colourfully, in several languages in his head. 

This was one fucked up mess That's what it was. And it was going to get messier, all over M's own backyard and that of MI5, before it could get cleaned up. M had to admit though, he admired the young man for coming to him with it. If the Quartermaster had decided to go ahead with the work without informing M, he very well could have. It would have also backed M into a corner. Though even now, M was feeling a little trapped. 

“Are you sure you want to do this Q?” M asked, the concern colouring his tone. Whilst Q had come to him with the information and the request for his permission, if not blessing to bring down a terrorist organisation with his own hands, it was a request that M could not deny. Not only because of Q's personal connections to the Holmes family and the terrorist's target being another Holmes, but because M knew that he would lose the most talented Quartermaster MI6 has had in a very long time, if he was to refuse the young man's request. 

Whilst the role that M or Tanner played in MI6 was a harsh one, it was one that they had been training for. They worked their way through the ladder as agents and learning the ropes through the politicians. The role of the Quartermaster though? That was usually given to a genius with even a remote capacity to deal with bureaucracy.

This particular Quartermaster was a genius that even MI6 could comb the world over and not find another quite talented and as inclined for the position. So, it was imperative that M keep the young man... interested and god forbid, satisfied in his job. If that meant that MI6 had to jump into a small war between a single man and a terrorist organisation, M was more than willing.

“Sir, I have been given the same training as your field agents for my own protection. I also feel compelled to remind you that this case doesn't only concern my family and I, but the safety of the British Government.” Q stated calmly and professionally and M had to agree. How could he not? The file that the young man had presented was extensive and it had been brought to his attention in the past. M had been trying to find the right time to act, but perhaps he had waited too long.

“I agree with you, Quartermaster. But you will need a field agent with you. One that is very well experienced in not just fieldwork, but in protection. A 00 agent.” M said quietly. Agents in the 00 program was an asset. Their training and upkeep ran to millions of pounds and it was a cost that the public would find it incredibly difficult to understand. They were assets the government created, utilised and valued. 

Yet, as far as M was concerned, their value was nothing compared to the Quartermaster. 00 agents, though not many, M had 9 of. Not to mention a nearly 30 A list agents waiting and training to take their place. The Quartermaster? M had no replacements. Simple economics said it all. 

“Sir, I hardly need a baby sitter. I am capable of protecting myself. You made sure of that.” Q said in return with quiet confidence and whilst M had to agree, he wasn't about to take the chance. After previous M's death, M had ordered that the Branch Heads, from intelligence all the way to the Q Branch, be trained in the same combat training as the field agents. He knew that Q could shoot just as well as their best agents and also knew that he could hold his own hand to hand against civilians. But M wasn't ready to take the risk against a terrorist or criminal organisation. 

“Q, you are an invaluable asset to MI6 and I'm not in the business of risking my valuable assets. You will be accompanied and protected by a 00 agent.” M stated firmly even as he started to think through the list of agents available. 001 and 002 were still on the long term mission in Madrid and Cairo, respectively and 003 was recovering from a gunshot to the stomach. 004 was still in Beijing and 005 was in Cleveland now, trying to wrap up her mission. 006, 007, 008 and 009 was available and currently on leave. 

“The other 00s are occupied, but I have 006, 007, 008 and 009 available.” M stated, watching the Quartermaster as he mentioned the agents. The young man didn't respond in anyway and it was impossible to read him through the exhaustion clearly colouring any responses, so M sighed and thought it through. 

“I need 008 at the very least on that mission to Afghanistan and with 009 still recovering, I would prefer to assign her to lighter work for the time being. So who will it be, 006 or 007?” M asked and this time, he saw the answer before the Quartermaster answered. He had thought it a little odd, the way that the two of them interacted, but as long as it didn't get between their work, M wasn't about to break anything apart. 

As delicate as the situation would be, M could use some stability in 007's life to anchor him and if that anchor happened to be one of the best protected assets within MI6, M could have no objections and whilst he was concerned that the 00 agent could fuck something up and hurt the Quartermaster seriously enough to effect his work, M could always send the 007 off to a long term assignment somewhere. 

“I am... more comfortable with 007 than 006 sir and his mission is less time sensitive than the others 006 could go on.” The Quartermaster answered after a moment and M nodded firmly. 

“I will brief him when he gets here. His mission starts tonight. Would you like to stay for the briefing?” M asked, but as expected, the younger man shook his head. 

“No sir. It would be better coming from you. I will however provide him with a comprehensive information package at the commencement of the mission.” Q stated. The young man looked tired but determined and M had to nod. 

Personally, he wanted to surround their new quartermaster with an army. But armies were noticeable and 00s, in essence was a one person army. The efficiency and kill rate of an army in a single person and M supposed, that would have to do. 

“Rose would function fine as R if required sir. I will of course be in contact with headquarters.” Q told him and M nodded. The new Q Branch was structured to be able to function without Q for extended periods. They had discovered the difficulties that arose before the young man could replace the essential role and a head of each branch within the Q branch was appointed for that particular reason. It also allowed for Q to do his own work, inventions whilst overseeing everything. Rose could certainly do that administrative role effectively. 

“I am also aware sir, that this would be considered an unsanctioned operation. I do however, hope that perhaps any responsibility that may arise could-” Q started, but M shook his head. 

“It's fine Q. It certainly isn't the first time an operation is being run within the country and it won't be the last. Besides, any ruffled feathers that may arise due to the situation can be... smoothed quickly?” M asked and wasn't surprised to see the nod and wiry smile. Mycroft Holmes had enough influence for that to happen. 

“Yes sir. But... if I may ask, I really do not want for my family name to be public knowledge, even within the grounds of MI6. If you-” Q started and M had to agree. The young man never would have been able to go under the radar, not with his genius, but he had worked his way through the ladder and earned his position as the Quartermaster of MI6, however, when his last name got out, people would think it was a politically motivated promotion, if they made the connection. 

“We are in the secret keeping business, Quartermaster. We are, after all, MI6.” M said with a rare indulgent smile and the other man nodded as he stood up and made his way, slowly and carefully out of the office with a soft 'thank you'. M waited for the door to close before he pushed the button to page Moneypenny. 

“Get me 007.” M said into the speaker and heard his instruction being confirmed before he hung up. She had questions and M knew, but he wasn't about to indulge the curiosities of a woman he was not so secretly training for his position. That conversation would have to happen later, after the Quartermaster was placed in the hands of James Bond. 

*#*#*#*#*#*# 

12 November 2012

James opened his eyes. They had been closed for just a moment and the exhaustion that should be plaguing his body was nowhere to be seen. All agents had a tendency to sleep lightly, unless drugged and whilst on mission, most of them slept hair trigger light, waking at the slightest sound, fully alert and ready for action. 

Despite being awake, James lay still for a moment, cataloguing the situation. There was nothing that signalled physical danger and there were no sounds foreign other than- 

Beep. Beep. 

James looked at his phone on the bedside table and pressed the ignore button. He saw who it was from and he hardly needed to talk to her when knew what the call would be about. Since Eve Moneypenny had made it clear that whilst she was very sorry she shot him, she was not going to indulge on a fling of any sorts with him, it was not going to be the kind of phone call he could be bothered to answer. 

It was a call in. A good thing too, since he was about to go stir crazy and his wall really couldn't take any more hits with the Japanese throwing stars without some permanent, structural damage taking place. Not to mention, the more he lingered in the country and the more he was allowed near MI6, the more he knew, he would not be able to stop himself from asking the questions of the Quartermaster. 

James got out of the bed in a fluid, graceful movement and made his way to the living room, where he had left the throwing stars embedded in the wall. Carefully grasping the centre and none of the pointed edges, James pulled each star out of the wall and brought it back to the table, enjoying the fresh winter air moving through the apartment and wrenching the bed heat from his almost naked body. James polished the stars with perfunctory movements before he wrapped them carefully in oiled clothes and shut them into the decorative boxes. 

He closed the window and secured it, making sure that all possible entry points were locked before he made his way to the wardrobe. The walk-in wardrobe was extensive and filled with his personal suits, not the kind that could withstand bullets or anything too fancy. He did have two suits in his wardrobe that had been mission issue, but he ignored those. 

James picked the dark grey wool suit, since it was getting rather cold and chose a simple, black shirt to go with it. He didn't feel like going with the traditional white. He found a pair of black socks and put on a pair of black pants. He donned the shirt, the trousers and chose a pair of pearl cuff links that would stand out starkly against the fine black cotton of the shirt. He decided against the tie and instead, undid three of the buttons of his shirt, making his tanned skin contrast both with the shirt and the dark grey of the suit jacket. 

He also put on a black leather belt issued by the Q Branch and added a shoulder rig. Whilst James had no idea what kind of mission he was going to be on, he usually had more use for the shoulder rig than he waist one and he preferred the ease with which he can hide them. James also donned the watch and slipped the ear piece in his pocket as he found a pair of leather dress shoes comfortable enough to run in if required. 

Given the weather conditions and his lack of knowledge as to where he was going, James erred on the side of caution and donned the suit jacket before he added a black three quarter length coat an a dark grey Burberry scarf. He also added a pair of leather gloves and when the outfit was complete, lightly sprayed on the Armarni cologne he had picked up in Paris was it? 

When he was ready, James picked up the small tablet the Quartermaster had provided and slipped it into the large coat pocket and picked up his phone and keys. He thought about getting rid of the food in the fridge, but sighed and shrugged his head. Depending on how long it would take, he would get the maid service to look after it. 

The phone rang again just as he was locking up the flat and James checked the phone and found his right eyebrow raising in surprise. He recognised the number, not as that of Moneypenny's extension, but M's. James answered it on the fourth ring. 

“Bond.” He said into the phone, is voice perfectly crafted to be bored professionalism. James pulled on the door one last time to make sure that it was all secured before he walked down the stairs to the parking garage. Assassins rarely found elevators comfortable. 

“007. We have a new mission for you.” M said into the phone and James found himself pausing at landing. M's voice was... stressed for the lack of a better word and that was not a usual state for the man. After all, unlike the previous M, this M had gone through combat and his stress tolerance level was much higher than the previous M. In fact James wasn't quite sure if he had heard it stressed before. That and the fact that M was calling instead of Moneypenny said a lot. 

“Sir, I will in there in 10 minutes.” James told him softly and heard M hum his agreement into the phone, but he seemed reluctant almost, to hang up. 

“007, this mission isn't going to be like other ones and before you come in, I need to know. Can you be professional around the Quartermaster?” James felt the frown form and paused just as he reached his beloved Aston Martin Vanquish. Had the Quartermaster said something? James had thought that the young man wouldn't and even now, with what he was hearing from M, James just couldn't believe that the Quartermaster would have betr- 

“What do you mean sir?” James asked carefully and the head of MI6 sighed and James could almost see it, the older man pacing up and down his own office, circling the desk with the phone clutched in his right and a glass of brandy in his left. 

“I mean, I don't know. The mission concerns Q and I need to know that you can protect him 007. That you will get him through this in one piece.” M said and James felt his eyes narrow but the agreement was far too fast coming from his lips. 

“The Quartermaster will come to no harm in my care sir.” James said, surprising himself with the conviction in his own voice when it came to the well being of the Quartermaster. There was also relief, in a way as well as dread. Relief that he was being charged with the Quartermaster's safety and not someone else and dread... because he was being entrusted with the welfare of the fragile genius that he, even now, felt the low heat of attraction to. Fuck. 

“Of course. Yes. I know that. Fuck. Just come in and listen to the mission objectives 007. But you have a choice with this one. If you don't want it, I'll assign you another mission and I can assign another 00 or two other 00s if necessary.” M said and 007 felt the concern grow. Something was up. Something to do with Q and James felt his body tense and hurried into the car and started engines without his usual appreciation for the purr she made. 

The drive to MI6 from his flat was approximately 14 minutes to 20 minutes, depending on traffic conditions and going at the correct speed limits for the area. James made it in 8. 

*#*#*#*#*#*

The Q Branch was quiet. With the rush over, Q had sent everyone but the core staff necessary to raise alarms and fend off any initial attacks, home. Q had sent the protesting Rose off home with his driver, the one he never used himself but always felt necessary to call for her. Q dragged his feet slowly through the Q Branch and walked up the steps leading to the Control Centre with slightly laboured breathing. 

He had really done it this time, Q thought. He hadn't eaten properly for at least a week or so and particularly in the last two- now three days, Q hadn't eaten anything but tea. Whilst the sugar and the caffeine helped, his body was breaking down. Without the proper rest and hydration. Q could see the spectacular fall out happening as soon as he was able to relax. Except even with his eye lids heavy and his head full of wool, it wasn't the time to relax. Not yet. 

Q sat down into his chair at his personal desk and groaned as the vertigo hit, hard and fast, leaving Q unsure of where the ground was and where the ceiling was. He laid his head back against the chair and let it sink in and dissipate before he focused his attention to the computer. It was exactly where he had left it, the left screen showing the video of the fall and the right showing the data he had gathered on Moriarty. 

M had been rather, explicit and Q knew that he wasn't supposed to leave the Q Branch, let along MI6 without the protection of a 00 agent. He knew that if M had his way, Q would be followed home by at least an A list agent on a normal day. Chances were, without Q knowing about it, there already was. Since he was usually quite out of it when he was making his way home, Q couldn't be certain. 

Q's mouse moved over the screen where the video was, but even knowing that it was not real and that it was most definitely not Sherlock's body that had fallen from the roof, Q could not watch it again. Even with the footage frozen as it was, Q's heart constricted when he laid eyes on it. Q turned it off with a harsh movement of his hand and looked at the black screen for a moment. 

Q knew. In his head, he understood, but that was nothing till he had physical proof. He needed to hold Sherlock, to feel the thin but muscled, strong arms holding him back and feel those dry chapped lips against his forehead and hear his voice before Q could safely say that the man that had stayed up reading all night to keep his nightmares away, was really alive. 

Q thought about the file again and quickly linked his personal tablet, secured even better than anything MI6 had really, and downloaded the files onto it. Carefully, he stood up from his chair and picked up the box of goodies he always had lying around. He found a Walther PPK, extra ear pieces he can encode on the fly, two other tablets, six smart phones and a heavy duty laptop. 

Q put everything into the backpack and carried the Walther PPK back to his table and set down. The vertigo was almost constantly present now, but it wasn't anything Q hadn't worked through before. He ignored it placed his hand around the Walther PPK's grip and saw the light turn on. His fingers were thin and delicate, just like mother's and Sherlock's, but they were long enough for the PPK to be a comfortable weapon for him. 

The Walther PPK he designed for the agents did not come with a safety. There never was for field agents. They knew how to handle a gun and the understanding was, if they were pointing a gun at someone, there was a very good chance that they needed to be shot and a safety only got in the way of that.

Q pulled the magazine out and racked the gun through times to clear the weapon of any chambered rounds. He caught the chambered round when it fell out and added it back to the full magazine. Once the gun was completely clear, Q pulled the slide back slightly and disengaged the lock, pulling the slide away completely. He put the body of the gun down on the table and took the barrel out of the slide and the spring. He could smell the gunpowder and remnants of gun oil. 

He pulled out the gun cleaning kit from inside of his drawer and started with the slide. He brushed the slide down thoroughly, ensuring that there was no particles left in the gun that could possibly cause it to jam or malfunction The continuous stroking action of the brush was calming and Q felt himself relax just a little with it. 

Q needed some relaxing, since he knew that 007 would be making his way to the Headquarters and soon, into the Q Branch. Knowing just how deceptively intelligent that infuriating agent was, Q knew that as soon as 007 heard the last name, he would make the connections. Q hoped he wouldn't and memories of what happened 10 years ago would remain a memory, but he knew better. It is likely to take time, Q hoped, but it was going to be just that. Time. 

Before Q could bend the brush with frustrated strokes, he put the slide down and started on the barrel. He twisted the brush in and out to get a thorough clean and asked himself if he was stupid. He should have asked for 006. He could have survived dealing with Alec and his happy go lucky ways and the friendly overtures and neverending jokes. But no. Q had to doom himself by choosing 007, not that there had ever been a choice. Alec never made him feel safe and Q couldn't stand the idea of spending that much time with a man, even if was as nice as Alec was. 

Q put down the barrel and turned his attention to the body of the gun and made sure that the mechanisms functioned properly before he put it down and picked up the gun oil. He dabbed two points on the slide and on the action in the body of the gun before he wet his finger with the oil and ran it across the barrel, spreading the oil thoroughly through the barrel's surface. It did not take a great deal of oil for the gun to function neatly and perfectly as it is meant to and it was a common mistake of rookies to apply too much oil, allowing dust and gunpowder to gather. Q was no rookie. 

When he was done, Q set up the slide so that it was standing to allow the oil to run its way down the rest of the slide and walked over the the small sink and washed his hands. The Control Centre, or his office, had been designed for everything, including a little tinkering and the sink and been a necessary part of the design. As was the fire extinguisher. 

Cleaning the gun and looking over the data again gave Q the much needed breathing space away from the other thoughts. But soon enough, Q focused his attention back on the case and the things that he needed to accomplish and it wasn't long before he turned his attention to he one and only constant in Sherlock's life. Dr John Watson. 

Whilst Q was certain that Sherlock had no idea, Q had met with the army doctor shortly after Q had noticed that their relationship was becoming slightly more than those of flatmates or indeed, of friends. Q had to admit, he had quite liked the seemingly ordinary but absolutely dangerous army officer come doctor come assistant to a consulting detective. It was clear within moments of 'bumping' into him and beginning talking to him why he was able to withstand the Holmes maniac phases so well. 

But the four 'accidental' meetings at John's favourite pub told Q something else. John was truly in love with the mad genius that was his brother and Q could only imagine just how badly he would be hurting right now. Q wanted to call him or do something to say that everything was okay and that Sherlock would be alright, but that would be an exercise in futility. The action Sherlock had taken had been in order to protect Mycroft, Lestrade and John Watson. Q's interference would ruin all of that and whilst Q could order protection for John, he knew better than the expect the army doctor to take it. 

Instead of finishing the gun cleaning process, Q turned to his computer and turned his attention to the camera watching the flat. The buzz of activity was gone. It was nearly two am and even the crime scene was down. Q zoomed the camera and heightened the resolution until he could see through the window of 221B Baker Street and rubbed his eyes as he saw John Watson's still, broken figure though the window. 

Damn. 

*#*#*#*#*#*#


	7. Seventh Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James learns exactly what his value is to MI6. Or in which Q acts like a brat and pulls rank on the poor 00 agent. 
> 
> But lets be honest, the Quartermaster of MI6 was always going to be the voice of reason in James' ear. Whether he liked it or not. 
> 
> M be damned!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four incredibly bad shifts in which I have been scratched, had a work place accident, verbally abused...  
> All fixed by listening to Skyfall by Adele, writing 00Q with all the hot images swimming in my head, a glass of baileys and milk and a cigar like cigarette Bond would be envious of.  
> That and all the wonderful support I have been getting. 
> 
> Thank you and hope you enjoy this offering. (Yes its a cliffy and if you are all really good... I won't keep you in anticipation for too long)

 12 November 2012

 

M looked up from the paperwork and the glass in his hand when the door to his office was opened without a knock and James Bond strode into the room, exuding sexual confidence and competence like the cologne he wore. Nothing new, M noted. Even though it was a ridiculous time of the night, James Bond looked as fresh as if he had been sleeping all night.

 

“Sir,” James said as a greeting but M had to admit, whenever the man used that term, M found it difficult to feel respected. It was almost as if it was a perfunctory term that 007 knew how to use, but the actual respect that most people put into the word wasn't there. It wasn't that 007 disrespected him, but it just seemed that the respect that James Bond always held was towards a person and not their title or role. Something M had to admit, he rather liked.

 

“Bond. Take a seat.” M offered and this time, rather than letting James raid his liquor cabinet, M pulled out the bottle of brandy he had been drinking and poured a generous amount into the glass before he put it in front of the 00 agent. Anyone else and he would have doubted the appropriateness of drinking before a mission, but the 00s were also trained for that. Nothing they bloody weren't trained for, M always thought with a little awe.

 

007 took the seat and the drink and sipped it as he read over the mission brief the Quartermaster had prepared. 007's eyes were calculating, narrow and cold as they absorbed the information and M was suddenly reminded that he was sitting in the presence of one of the worlds most deadly assassins. His hand moved slowly but comfortingly over the handgun he had strapped to his waist even in MI6. James' eyes darted away from the paper quickly to catalogue that movement and M found himself a little impressed again.

 

“I don't see anything here that differs from the usual mission parameters. I also see no reason as to why the Quartermaster should be in the field.” 007 said firmly, coldly and professionally. M had to admit that he was right. As far as the mission brief was concerned, it was just like any other brief they had gone through. It would simply be a matter of tracking down the members of the criminal organisation and cutting them off from their funding and their intelligence network and slaughter them if necessary.

 

“In fact the paperwork does not have his involvement at -” James paused when he looked up from the paperwork at M, who simply sighed and looked at the 00 agent. James Bond was one of the best 00s the program had seen. Not just on paper but in action. M himself had seen that action from James and he had to admit, it had been incredibly impressive, if not impossible given what had been his physical 'capabilities' on paper.

 

“No. It doesn't. The Quartermaster of MI6, by all rights is one of the most protected assets we have. The Q Branch isn't in the bunkers because its convenient.” M started. His instincts said that he should keep the Quartermaster there, surrounded by the agents M had strategically placed for his protection and not out in the field where he only had 007 to rely on. But the last thing he needed was for the Quartermaster to rebel.

 

“Then why-” James started but M interrupted.

 

“Because he asked for it. And 007, we both know what he'll do if he doesn't go through the channels.” M said drily and the 00 agent smirked even as he shook his head. Whilst M couldn't say that he knew the young man very well, he understood him well enough to reach at least those conclusions and apparently the 00 agent was the same.

 

“007, the mission objectives are clearly set out in the paperwork. They are _his_ mission objectives.” M said, stressing the word to make sure that James Bond understood. The agent nodded sombrely.

 

“Not mine.” He confirmed and M nodded. M valued his agents. He valued the life of anyone that was willing to put it on the line for Queen and the Country and more importantly, he understood the value of an agent like 007 in both the organisation and in the country. So it was always hard, when he had to ask what he was about to ask, but it M's job to say it.

 

“Your orders are to disregard the primary objective if it becomes necessary. Your objective is to protect the primary asset.” M paused as the understanding became clear on the agent's face. He cleared his throat once before he continued.

 

“At any and all costs.” M finished and 007 nodded, his face showing nothing but professional distance that had M surprised. He had always thought that 007 was a troublemaker, an unprofessional git that had a trouble staying dead and was even worse at following orders. But in the months he had dealt with him, M found that 007 usually disregarded orders because it was necessary to achieve the mission objective and also, because sometimes it was impossible for M to know what was best from the corner office overlooking the Thames. That was perhaps the reason the previous M had valued him so much, M thought.

 

“Understood sir. I am to understand that my mission objectives begin immediately?” 007 asked and M nodded firmly. The 00 agent stood up, without finishing his drink and leaving the file where it was.

 

When 007 walked out of the office, it was with that same very swagger that he had walked into the office with and M let himself laugh a little, throwing back the alcohol 007 left behind. This, if he survived it at all, was going to be one hell of a debrief. If London survived, M thought warily. Only If.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

James Bond walked down the far too familiar hallways leading towards the rabbit warrens of the Q Branch. He was equipped for the mission already, though he would prefer a few more guns and possibly a rifle or two, those things could be picked up anywhere, at the safe houses and at his own flat if necessary. Besides, they were staying local and always had access to MI6. Also, James knew for a fact that if he asked for back up during this particular mission, he would be getting another 00 agent at the very least. Which is something he could work with.

 

The Quartermaster on the other hand? He was unpredictable at best and there was a very real chance that he may end up a shivering wreck in the corner of a room. James had no idea where this whole situation would lead. One thing that was certain was the fact that James was about to spend a great deal time more with the young genius than he had ever planned to.

 

James Bond paused in the corridor leading into the Q Branch. He knew that the young man could very well be watching him, but he needed the time to think, to make some decision. James couldn't let the Quartermaster distance himself from James. Not during the mission, which meant that it would be wise for James to hold back on the questions burning a hole in his mind and moreover, to ensure that no sexual encounters occur, though the latter wasn't going to be under James' sole control.

 

James sighed. This was going to be far more complicated and difficult than any mission James had ever been on. He also had a sneaking suspicion that the Quartermaster was going to put James' willingness to put himself in between his asset and a bullet to the test. Still, there was little point to stalling.

 

He passed through the last scanner and walked though the nearly empty stalls of the Q Branch and walked up to where the Control Centre was, the light was dim in the room but James spotted the figure of the Quartermaster seated at his desk, his eyes focused on the screen in front of him.

 

“007.” He was greeted as he walked through the door and James found himself feeling oddly as if he had just entered M's office rather than the Q Branch. Still, James was nothing if not comfortable in any surrounding, even in the torture dungeons in the Sahara Desert. He walked into the room and settled himself right next to the Quartermaster, leaning against his desk.

 

“Quartermaster.” James said in return and looked at the parts of what looked like a Walther PPK neatly laid out and raised an eyebrow at the young man, who took his eyes away from the screen with difficulty to look up at the agent. James studied the young man, hiding the mild concern that automatically rose when he saw the young man. Screw protection from bullets, James thought, he was going to have to protect the Quartermaster from himself.

 

The young man looked more dead than alive with the pale skin, dark circles, colourless lips, blood shot eyes and on top of it all, even his forest green eyes were dulled over and not full of life as they usually were. James formulated a plan to feed and rest up the Quartermaster before he allowed him to step one foot outside of the flat or safe house he can secret the young man into.

 

“Don't tell me you don't know how to put that back.” James asked and the Quartermaster let out a surprisingly dry laugh at it and in quick and efficient movements, lifted the slide, fit the barrel, replaced the coil and put the slide back on the railings on the body of the gun and racked it once before he slid the magazine home and chambered a round. MI6 agents were trained to carry a round in the chamber, always ready for the kill.

 

“One _does_ need to know how a gun works before one can do any modifications 007.” The Quartermaster said drily before he clipped the holster onto his own belt and slid the firearm home with practised ease that had James raising an eyebrow. He had been told that all of the branch heads went trough some modicum of self protection, but he hadn't thought that the bare month course done part time could have produced the proficiency and ease he saw in the Quartermaster. The familiarity was the gun was one thing, but holster?

 

“You were briefed.” The Quartermaster started but when James opened his mouth to answer, he lifted a finger and continued.

 

“That's not a question. You wouldn't be down here if you hadn't. Let me guess, M told you to take a bullet for me?” The Quartermaster asked with sarcastic tone and James nodded with a wide, beguiling smile he used to put people at ease. Or in this case, on their guard, not that the Quartermaster seemed really capable of such a move with him about.

 

“I have been informed, under no uncertain terms, that you are more valuable to MI6 than myself.” James said, without a single hint of bitterness but his voice full of jest. The Quartermaster rolled his eyes and packed what looked like the last wire into his bag. He closed the bag up and looked at the spy.

 

“You can ignore those directions 007. Your mission is to assist me with mine and follow my orders. Do you understand?” The Quartermaster asked and there was authority and odd charisma in that tone that James almost just wanted to agree. He didn't. The chain of command was clear and more importantly, James' own instincts had a role of their own to play. There was no way that James could obey an order that would put or leave his asset in danger. It went against the very grains of his training.

 

“There is a chain of command Quartermaster, one that even you can't disobey. But yes, I will assist you with getting rid of Moriarty and the organisation that he has formed.” James answered and the young man seemed displeased with the answer, but nodded after a moment when he realised that was the best he was going to get.

 

“There are few things you need to know. But I am rather keen to go home. Perhaps we can have the discussion there?” The Quartermaster asked and James thought about it. The Quartermaster's residence wasn't exactly the best that MI6 had to offer. He hadn't changed his residence from where he first settled in after he started at MI6 and that meant that it was hardly a flat or a house that was suitable for a branch head of MI6. But it still did mean that it was a vetted flat with most of the residents being MI6, MI5, police or military.

 

“Just two questions.” James stated and the young man remained where he was, his movements strictly controlled and careful not to make himself dizzy. The Quartermaster nodded lightly as James bent down to pick up the back pack.

 

“Have you had any, and I mean _any_ involvement with this case other than the research you did through MI6?” the Quartermaster shook his head straight away. James thought so. After all, all of the cases that he went on, he could technically say that the Quartermaster and half of the Q Branch was involved, but it would never be them, not really, that ever became the targets. It was always James and the agents that worked outside. It was just how they liked it. It also meant no immediate danger.

 

“Second question, when is the last time you ate and slept?” James asked, putting the bag on the table next to himself and folding his arms over the chest as he asked the question. The Quartermaster looked away this time, not meeting James' eyes. Surely the young man had noticed that this was fast becoming a part of their routine, as part of their banter was as the flirting had become. It was also becoming serious, from what James could see.

 

There was only so much neglect the body can go through before bouncing back to health becomes difficult. A few days without food is not a big problem. Constantly depriving the body of food at irregular intervals without the chance for the body to fully recover from the last bout of starvation and sleep deprivation? That usually led to immune systems collapsing and bodies shutting down. Something James couldn't afford in his asset.

 

“I ate a sandwich yesterday. And I took a nap.” The Quartermaster said, but James knew better. Instead, he stood up straight and put the back pack over his own shoulder and stared down at the young man.

 

“Stand up.” James ordered and the Quartermaster slowly obeyed, or tried to, but James pulled him up quickly. As expected, the young man lost balance immediately, his eyes closing shut as the vertigo hit and the Quartermaster's knees gave out underneath him. James caught him expertly with his right arm and held him against his chest until the young man could remember which way was up. It took far longer than it should have, but when the Quartermaster was on his feet and steady on it, he swallowed a few times, fighting back, no doubt, the nausea.

 

“Before we do anything else, you are going to eat and sleep. We can worry about all this Moriarty business tomorrow.” James stated firmly, but the Quartermaster opened his mouth to complain. James let the right arm that had been holding the Quartermaster's back move till he was cupping the back of the Quartermaster's neck and felt him relax into the touch, almost falling forward into James' embrace.

 

“It just became my job to keep you alive Quartermaster. I usually find that my assets survive the best when they are steady on their feet.” James said. Until then, he'd had no right. Even with all his observations of the young man's state, he hadn't been able to do anything, but now? His welfare just became his number one priority and James, if nothing else, took his mission objectives seriously.

 

“Fine. But I need to go home first.” The Quartermaster said as he struggled for a moment and seemed to gather enough strength to move away from James' touch. He stumbled a little as he broke away, but straightened himself quickly and began to walk out of the Control Centre. James had a thousand questions he had wanted to ask, but none of it was relevant to what was happening. Not yet. Later, James told himself. Later he was going to sit the damned Quartermaster of MI6 down and see if he couldn't use a few more tricks he had up his sleeve.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

Q hated cars. He hated their vulnerability and the human error that always factored in when it came to cars. Not just that of the driver that drove the car he was in, but the other drivers on the road. Thus, Q felt even remotely safe in the car when he was being driven by the drivers his family employed or the driver, Finnigan, MI6 had assigned to him.

 

Still, the innate safety he seemed to feel when he was around 007 seemed to extend to being in the car as well and Q found himself relaxing into the seat rather than gripping the sides as he usually did. It probably helped that Q had refused to give 007 anything more powerful than a Holden Commodore V8. Given the urban conditions, it was a much better option than an Aston Martin. It blended in better and if it came to push or shove, the V8 engines just had enough kick to be effective on the city roads. 007 had agreed with the reasoning.

 

007 hadn't asked for the address when they got into the car and Q hadn't expected him to. Most 00s knew or ought to know the addresses of the heads of the branches. They were often the targets of kidnappings or threats and it was the 00s that first got called if they happened to be in the country.

 

Q watched the roads moving past as 007 unerringly picked out the quickest and the most effective routes to his home and disregarded it for the round about route that would give the spy the opportunities to catch any cars following. Q felt like telling him it was a waste of time, but the longer distance was giving him the much, much needed time to think.

 

Given that his job was tracking down and dismantling international criminal and terrorist organisations, Q didn't really have much to think about when it came to the actual mission. But there was much to be said about the whole 007 situation. Once 007 meets Sherlock Holmes, he was gong to make the connection. A connection Q could hope would take some time, but it would be made. Q had no doubts about 007's memory or his vast intellect and that just made Q's life difficult.

 

“Parking?” Ja- 007 asked and Q pointed him to the street parking around the corner from his building. It was right near the entrance and marked 'no stopping' but it wasn't a tow away zone and they would be safe for the night. Besides, it was a well sheltered spot with enough trees to prevent a sniping attack and with the other side of the street being shops, clear enough for 007 to relax.

 

007 made a pleased noise as he parked the car. Q undid the seatbelt and made a move to get out of the car but found it locked. Q looked around and up at the agent, meeting the sharp blue eyes and raised an eyebrow in question. 007 sat back in his seat, his seatbelt done up behind him rather than on him. Q had been too distracted to even notice that.

 

“Ground rules, Quartermaster.” 007 said with that wonderful low drawl of his that had Q's body respond despite knowing better. Q looked at him and rolled his eyes purposefully, at which 007 let out a quick laugh that had Q feeling warmth in his stomach. Damn. Q smiled anyway even as he sought to memorise that laugh and the smile on 007's lips.

 

“You stay where I put you. If I shove you behind me, that's where you stay. Otherwise, I want you a step back from me, to the left. I need to be able to see you in my peripheral vision.” 007 said and Q nodded. Whilst he had no idea about the practical applications, he knew the hundreds of approaches agents took when it came to protecting their assets. Most 00s preferred the close and personal approach of keeping the asset with them until the danger could be eliminated. As Alec had put it once, it was better to have dead assassins and a scared asset than a would be assassins playing hide and seek and a dead asset. Q had to agree.

 

“I don't need a protector 007.” Q said but it wasn't in protest and 007 seemed to read that. Nonetheless, the other man continued, his hand coming over to cover Q's in a socially acceptable, comforting touch. Q accepted it gratefully.

 

“I always enter the door first. You stay behind me until I say it's okay. Do you understand me Q?” Q nodded this time, though he knew that he was about to disobey that particular rule when it came to entering his own flat. 007 would have to deal with that when it came to it.

 

“Fine. Now can we go inside?” Q asked with a tongue in cheek expression, acting as if he was a teenager rebelling against the authorities and 007 laughed softly in exasperation before he got out of the car, scoping the area carefully until he came around and unlocked Q's door.

 

“This is ridiculous you know.” Q said, but he didn't move away or protest any more as 007 bundled in him to the apartment building. 007's body shielded his, moving, in the view of a casual observer, as a lover would, crowding his lover in his arms as they walked home, but ensuring that Q's body was covered from the most likely sniping spots. Considering their height and weight difference, that was relatively easy.

 

“Stairs.” 007 stated when they entered the foyer and Q sighed, but he obeyed. The little reserve of energy Q had left was being drained away by the unnecessary movements, but he knew that 007 had probably planned even that. He was also glad that he lived on the second floor.

 

007 walked ahead of him and took off his coat as he had entered the stairwell, carrying it folded and laid across his left arm, leaving his hands free and his right arm free. It also gave Q an excellent view of the very firm ass in that perfectly tailored suit of his and Q had to stop himself from staring too much as he walked up the stairs. The two flights of stairs were both very long and very short and 007 exited the stairwell before Q did, his movements economical and silent.

 

Q followed through and 007 crowded him a little, just enough to cover him if necessary but nothing to make their contact seem obscene or odd. Q stopped before they made it to the flat and studied the door and looked at 007.

 

“Remind me, 007.” Q said all of sudden and 007 looked at him, having stopped when Q had. Q studied the silvery blue eyes, the laughter and stress lines around those eyes, the slightly weathered skin, the platinum blonde hair and the irresistible red lips. 007 raised one of those perfect blonde eyebrows in question.

 

“Does a Quartermaster of MI6 outrank a 00 agent?” Q asked, cocking his head sideways as if it was a real question. Both of them knew the answer. Q saw the calculation go through 007's eyes. Q knew 007's resume inside out. He knew that he was a military man, a man that understood and did not mind the rules of a ranked society. 007 raised an eyebrow and smirked.

 

“Thinking of issuing orders, Quartermaster?” 007 asked as he moved closer. He moved with that predatory ease and glide that made Q want to take a step back, or forward, Q wasn't sure. He did neither. He let the other man move in closer until they were almost touching, 007's mouth an inch away from Q's. Q's eyes threatened to close on their own and breach that gap, but he didn't. He didn't dare.

 

“I am going to enter the flat first 007 and under no circumstances are you to draw your weapon. Do you understand?” Q asked, his eyes not on the agent's eyes, but at his lips, the red lips that looked just as if they were waiting to be kissed. Lips that Q hadn't quite yet tasted yet, had been close, but not quite yet. 007 didn't move back and let the air mingle between them as he too spoke, his voice low and pitched perfectly to make Q shiver.

 

“Is that an order, Quartermaster?” 007 asked and Q did lean back a little, nodding and meeting the arctic blue eyes with his own hazel. 007 cocked his head aside a little, but he did nod his acceptance. Q wanted to stay outside in the corridor and explain the whole horrid situation, but the exhaustion was really starting to weigh down and the inherent, if not irrational need to see if Sherlock was inside, was something that Q could not resist.

 

Q walked to the door and paused before it just for a moment before he put his hands on the handle, letting the biometric locks there detect his fingerprints and unlocked the door with the physical key as well. He let the door swing open, feeling 007's heat behind himself.

 

A single light illuminated the usually dark flat. Q didn't focus his attention on the light. It was a misdirection. Instead, Q focused at the centre of the room, where he could make out the outlines of a man seated in a lounge chair, a leather reclining chair to be exact. The faint light cast by the dim light bulb did little to illuminate the figure, but it was possible to see the raised arm and the glint of light bouncing off the end of the barrel of a Browning.

 

Q felt 007 tense up behind him and put his right arm back, holding into the agent's right wrist to prevent from taking any action as his eyes adjusted to the dark and he took in the dark auburn curls, the outline of a thick black coat and a scarf. Q opened his mouth but no words came out. As it was, the man with the gun spoke first, his voice a soft, confident drawl.

 

“You're late.”

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#  


	8. Eighth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q is emotional, Sherlock acts like the older brother he is (even if he is still clueless about emotions) and James observes and deduces. 
> 
> Or in which James is forced to look after two Holmes' and wonders what he did to deserve the punishment? 
> 
>  
> 
> WARN: Emotional distress! Please refer to end notes!

 12 November 2012

 

James took two deep, controlled breaths. His muscles were all tense and twitching, demanding movement. He held steady, focusing on the barely transmitting heat of the Quartermaster's thin fingers wrapped around his suit covered wrist. His instincts screamed at him.

 

Since 0230 hours, after he had been briefed and walked down to the Q Branch, James' mission had started. And since that second, James considered the Quartermaster his 'asset'. Asset that he was meant to protect with his life if necessary. It was taking every self control he had to _not_ do that job.

 

His body screamed at James to move, or to move the Quartermaster. James' mind went through the quick calculations of moves. He could use the right arm the Quartermaster was holding to haul him backwards, putting him behind himself, or pull him out and to the right of the flat itself. James could move forward in a quick and harsh movement, ducking to the right or the left to disarm the other man. But the Quartermaster's body wasn't tense. It was relaxed and the hand holding James' wrist wasn't cold with fear.

 

“Ah. You brought home a former SAS commando. Really Oz? I had hoped you would be discrete.” The man's deep, low pitched voice said with the same drawl. The gun was still pointed directly at the Quartermaster's chest and James felt his body almost _vibrate_ with the _need_ to do _something_. Need to protect. But Q's hand was still steady and only tightened when James' muscles twitched.

 

“He is more capable of discretion than you are Sherlock.” The young Quartermaster said, his voice shaking and James heard the relief in his voice. It was palpable and so was familiarity. James felt himself relax a little with that. With that knowledge, he moved the Quartermaster forward two steps and closed the door behind himself with the left hand, letting the young man keep his right. The coat slipped a little from his arm, but James corrected it. Even through the movement, the gun never wavered and James' eyes never left it.

 

“Point.” The other man said drily, but the affection was clear in his tone too. With that, the other man moved slowly, far too slowly for the action to be for the Quartermaster's benefit and dropped the barrel from where it was pointed, to the ground and then put the gun on the table. He raised his hand away from the gun a moment later and James could see that the safety had been engaged. Drama then, not a true threat, James assumed as he noticed that the hand holding James' wrist was shaking.

 

“I- I need-” The Quartermaster began, but he didn't seem to know what to say. James felt his eyes widen at the emotion chocking his voice. He had never heard anything but dry, calm and professional tone from the young man. James felt frozen, not knowing what to do, but the other man was already nodding and standing up. He quickly divested himself off the coat that he had been wearing, throwing it on the lounge chair he had been sitting on.

 

“I know Oz. I know.” The other man said, his voice soft, as he took off his suit jacket too, a well tailored and high end affair, which the man treated as if it was off rack, throwing it on the ground. Then he began walking towards the younger man and James drew back, reaching out his left hand to wrap around the Quartermaster and pull him back with James, but the other man was quicker, darting forward and wrapping a very thin, artistic hand around the Quartermaster's arm, where James' hand would have gone.

 

“Don't touch him.” The man snapped and James tensed to retaliate, but he noticed that the Quartermaster wasn't tensing or flinching from the touch, in fact, he relaxed completely into the touch, just as he had done with James. In fact, the man moved in closer and the Quartermaster's knees seem to buckle and the other man caught him expertly and held him close.

 

“S'lock.” The Quartermaster's voice was full of desperation and need and it was so raw that James didn't know what to do. The other man did. He held the Quartermaster close, guiding him down to the floor, where the other man could wrap both of his arms tightly around the Quartermaster and cradle him on his lap. The other man as as taller than James by half a head and despite the lack of mass, he seemed to be able to handle the young man's weight.

 

Given that the Quartermaster refused to let go of his own wrist, James too sank to the ground, though he knelt with only one knee on the plush carpet. The other man settled down onto the ground and when he realised that James' wrist was also trapped into the mix, his hazel eyes narrowed, but made no comment but compensated for it by turning the Quartermaster till his left side was tucked into other man's body.

 

“I can't-” The Quartermaster's broken voice said and James felt something in his mind connect, but he couldn't lay his finger on it quite yet. James ignored it in favour of trying to figure out what the Quartermaster needed, but the other man seemed to know. He moved the Quartermaster so that he can undo the buttons on his shirt. Apparently the other man had known, because the heating was on high and James saw, almost mesmerised as the Quartermaster let go of his wrist and reached out with that hand, touching the exposed skin, right where the heart is.

 

The Quartermaster's hand shook badly but as he touched that skin, his eyes closed shut and he leaned his head against the other man's chest carefully. The other man cradled the Quartermaster as if he was a child and there was familiarity in that movement, as if it was something the two of them had done before, frequently. The other man raised his left hand from the buttons of his shirt and began to carefully help the Quartermaster out of his own jacket. There were no whispers and not a sound, but James could see that each action was designed to comfort.

 

James stood up and backed away, feeling, not for the first time in his experience, as if he was intruding in a very personal and intimate scene. James leaned against the door and watched carefully and just as he got the distance, understanding hit.

 

Sherlock Holmes.

 

Even James, who had been living sheltered from domestic news, had seen and heard about the notorious consulting detective. He had recognised the name too, Sherlock Holmes, but had concluded that Holmes wasn't exactly a very rare last name and the consulting detective couldn't be the Holmes those in the intelligence game knew and recognised. Even now, James dismissed that thought and focused on the other man's looks.

 

The auburn curls were much curlier, but they were the same shade. The light green hints hidden in the depths of hazel was familiar too, something he had seen a hundred times from the Quartermaster's own face. The other man's features were sharper, more chiselled than the Quartermaster, but the resemblance was impossible to ignore and the connection, once made, could not be stopped.

 

“Brothers.” James breathed, unable to stop himself and Sherlock Holmes seemed to hear it because he looked up, the Quartermaster didn't. Sherlock met James' eyes with sharp, intelligent hazel eyes and raised an eyebrow with surprise.

 

“Not bad.” Sherlock Holmes murmured, but his voice was pitched low and soft as if he was trying not to disturb the almost unconscious Quartermaster in his arms. With some careful manoeuvring, he had managed to take off the Quartermaster's coat and the cardigan he wore underneath it. He also slipped the Quartermaster's glasses off his face and folded them carefully before he handed those over the James.

 

“S'lock. Sherlock. Sherlock.” The Quartermaster murmured over and over again and the other man just held him closer, smoothing his hand over the Quartermaster's back and hair and cradling his head closer to the thin but muscled chest. Eventually, the Quartermaster relaxed completely.

 

It took a little over forty five minutes, but the Quartermaster's breathing evened out. The other man didn't stop his caressing movements and James had remained where he had been standing, coat still over his left arm, holding the Quartermaster's glasses in that hand and leaning against the door of the flat. Eventually, it was Sherlock Holmes that broke the silence.

 

“Over 70 hours with no rest. Little to no sustenance. Emotional trauma. He'll be out for at least 8 hours.” His voice was quiet, distant and calculating but James heard the undertone of relief, exhaustion and guilt. That did very little to lessen the rage that had built up in James when he made all the connections. James didn't voice the questions that had formed in his head and instead, moved to the nearby dining table to hung his coat over one of the chairs, laying the Quartermaster's glasses on the table before he took off his suit jacket and laid it on top of the coat.

 

James knew that the Consulting Detective or whatever he liked to call himself, was watching every move James made. James moved behind the other man and picked up the browning, took the magazine out and racked the gun twice to make sure it was empty before he slipped the magazine home, chambered the round and tucked it into the back of his pants, safety still on. There was no way James was going to be able to relax, even knowing that the other man was the Quartermaster's brother, if he wasn't in control of all the guns.

 

“Sherlock Holmes and as you deduced correctly, this blubbering idiot's brother.” Sherlock said, his voice still low and soft and the affection was unmistakable. But James didn't respond. He was too angry. Once he made the connection between the resemblance and into Sherlock's identity, everything made sense. The frantic concentration he had seen in the young Quartermaster when he had been in his office the afternoon before and his urgency to come home and the desperation that had coated everything.

 

James couldn't help but blame all of that on the man holding his Quartermaster in his arms now. But the Quartermaster hadn't, not really. He had been too relieved and James could understand why. Still, James had a few things to do. He wanted to set the alarm on the house again and he found it in the usual place for most MI6 vetted flats and armed it using the code he knew would work as a master override code for the flat. The Quartermaster, it seemed, had been lax about his own security. When that was done, James checked each of the rooms, a small guest bedroom with nothing but a bed, a bathroom with a decent sized tub and a shower big enough for two and a cosy bedroom with a king sized bed and a convenient settee.

 

“Not just former SAS. You're intelligent, a cut above the average and you're used to relying on your instincts and intuition as much as your training. You're observant and dangerous as a well maintained gun. A spy then.” The other man said, his voice lilting. James felt mildly irritated that he could read all of that from James' mannerisms, but then he was hardly attempting to hide it and given that the other man was Sherlock Holmes, he wasn't too surprised. James refused to respond.

 

He thought about moving the Quartermaster to the bedroom, but the young man was fast asleep and given the desperation that he had shown to make that skin to skin connection with Sherlock's chest, James knew that if Sherlock was to pull away for even a second and the young man couldn't hear the heartbeat underneath his ear any more, he would wake up and James needed his Quartermaster to sleep. So James pulled up a chair from the dining table and sat down.

 

The other man, as it were, seemed to notice James' reluctance to speak and settled down into the silence too, closing his own eyes and laying them over the Quartermaster's brown curls. James relaxed into the chair and he too, closed his eyes. James could stay 'asleep', just underneath the surface of consciousness to get his physical body the rest it needed. Silence and deep breaths filled the flat.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

Sherlock didn't dare move. The regret and guilt was palpable on the tongue and Sherlock hated the taste of it. Mycroft, Sherlock knew, would have been upset too, but Mycroft was colder and he would have felt anger and sorrow but he would have carried on. Sherlock had really forgotten about the reaction Oz, Oscar Holmes would have to the whole incident. He had been too caught up on the genius of the plan and the fact that he had foreseen it, to focus on the other details.

 

Still, Sherlock didn't apologise. He just made sure that he held the much larger and thinner brother in his arms just as he had held him through the nightmares when he was a child and even just 10 years ago. Sherlock kissed and smoothed the brown curls and caressed the vertebrae he could feel under his fingers. It had been almost 6 months, Sherlock noted with some disdain, since he had seen the youngest Holmes last. That won't do, Sherlock thought.

 

They weren't close in the traditional sense, Sherlock knew. Mycroft was more likely to send spies around to check on them than to pick up a phone and call and Oz would use the security cameras and Sherlock, his network of street people. But they were close. They understood each other in ways that most people didn't and couldn't. Familial connections of course was responsible for that, but so was the closeness of growing up together.

 

Oz had always turned to Sherlock when he had nightmares. He liked to sit, his head against the steady beat of Sherlock's chest and listen to stories until the younger could fall asleep to the resonances of Sherlock's voice echoing through his chest. It had been such an ingrained part of him that when Oz had a bad fright, the first thing he sought was the sound of another heartbeat. But since the incidents of 10 years ago, it had just become worse. And this time, Sherlock knew, it was also about making sure that Sherlock was real, alive and breathing.

 

“Nno.” Oz murmured softly in his sleep and Sherlock looked up, not surprised to met the Arctic blue eyes of the man that had come home with Oz. He had thought that even the slightest noise would rouse the other man had he had been correct. Sherlock's deductions said that the man was not Oz's lover, from the lack of complete familiarity and the fact that the man had very clearly never been to the flat. Protection then.

 

Sherlock studied the other man and noted that he had been shot, numerous times it seemed. The most recent wound though, was a shot to the left shoulder. Serious enough to warrant a surgery and the muscles had wasted away significantly on the left. Mostly recovered now, but the man still felt uncomfortable relying on the left arm. Deadly too, Sherlock noted critically. There was not a muscle that was not trained within an inch of its life to ensure that it would be there to be used when the man needed it.

 

But he wasn't just brawn without the brains. No, the man was smart, nothing like Sherlock or Oz, but he was intelligent and observant enough to see and put the two and two together. John wouldn't have been able to do that so quickly. But this man was more used to relying on his instincts and observations to keep himself out of the pinch, Sherlock noted. He was a spy. Not just any spy, but a very good one. That brought up a whole bunch of questions about his brother that Sherlock knew that he weren't to ask.

 

Instead, Sherlock kept his eyes on the other man, who broke eye contact to look at Oz. Sherlock smoothed him until he stopped whimpering and settled deeper into sleep. Sherlock was uncomfortable on the floor, but he wasn't about the move and the other man made no such suggestions either.

 

“I had been meaning to ask him why he would leave the office, but now it makes sense.” The other man said and Sherlock found himself surprised by the neutral tone. He had seen the anger in the other man's eyes as clear as day and had expected it to show if and when the man actually decided to speak to him. There was no hint of it now. Not bad, Sherlock thought.

 

“Does it?” Sherlock asked back, his eyes carefully cataloguing the other man still. Sherlock knew that if he were to strip the man down, he would be able to tell the life story of his scars and marks, but even without it, the man was fascinating. His suit for one, told Sherlock that he was a man that was used to wealth. Grew up with it in the same way that Sherlock and his brothers had. It also said that the man enjoyed the finer tastes in everything and whilst it was a jump perhaps to say so, Sherlock would bet that it was because his life was, to the man's eyes, a short one.

 

“Something happened to him. A long time ago. What happened.” The man asked, but the question wasn't asked as a question, it was a statement and Sherlock thought about it. Sherlock could still recall, hadn't been able to delete that moment when they had 'found' Oz. The downright trembling mess his brother had been and the road to recovery. It had been a journey that he had taken with Oz. Sherlock wondered for a moment if this was the sort of thing that John would tell him was inappropriate for him to discuss with a- _John._

 

Sherlock's eyes widened as he realised that he had also forgotten about John. Oh not forgotten, not really. Simply refused to consider. He hadn't wanted to think about what John's reaction would be to the situation. He hoped that he would be okay, after all, they were having sexual relations but John couldn't possibly love someone like Sherlock, right? He would find someone else, Sherlock thought with something like a vice gripping his heart. That was new.

 

“John wouldn't want me to tell.” Sherlock said, a little numbly. He didn't want to think about John and him finding someone new. He also didn't want to think about John hurting either. So Sherlock turned his attention to the other man again, who seemed to have taken the reason, a non-logical one, to heart and hadn't asked further questions.

 

“I've met him before. I have met you before.” The other man stated and Sherlock thought back to that day. It was horrible to recall it again, but yes. The other man was in there. With Mycroft's cold fury, Father's absolute anguish and Sherlock's own anger and fear. There was that smell of fire, gunpowder and blood too, along with more unsavoury human smells, not that it stopped any of them gripping Oz as hard as they could.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock confirmed and the other man lapsed into silence after that. Sherlock could remember the other man, wearing black fatigues, his eyes cold as ice, but his hands gentle as he held Oz in his arms and repeated over and over that everything was alright. Oz had refused to let go of him and the other man hadn't demanded that he does. In his terror, Oz had latched onto the other man's heartbeat just he did with Mycroft and Sherlock and the other man had allowed it, holding Oz until he had fallen into drugged sleep.

 

“You don't remember, do you. It won't stand out to you because you've done so many rescues. He doesn't want you to. Oz would have told you if he wanted you to remember it.” Sherlock told him, not quite knowing why he bothered. But the other man nodded, accepting that and closed his eyes again. Sherlock too closed his eyes, relishing in the warmth of his brother's body, even if it was a poor replacement for the one he wished he was holding.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

James watched the Quartermaster, not Oz Holmes, Q, the Quartermaster of MI6 carefully. The other man looked rested, if nothing else. He was still pale and James knew that he needed to eat to look well, but that was something he can work on slowly, James figured. Though, for now, James was just grateful the screaming stage was over.

 

The Quartermaster woke at 0900 hours and when the young Quartermaster awoke, it was with something akin to a sob and for a good half an hour, Sherlock had soothed him and then the Quartermaster had gotten up, as if it was completely normal to have spent the night sleeping in his brother's arms and he went through his morning routines, completely ignoring both Sherlock and James.

 

Sherlock had stood up, stretched his long body and settled down in the armchair that he had been sitting in. James remained where he was, seated at the dining table. His whole body wanted him to move, to stretch, but he wanted to observe the morning routines, see if food made into the routine at any stage. It didn't.

 

The Quartermaster walked to the bathroom, relieved himself, brushed his teeth, indulged in a shower, got out wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, made it to his bedroom and came out dressed, hair wet and flopping about. He made his way to the kitchen and a minute later, emerged with a cup of tea and it was only then that he seemed to realised there was company and looked for his glasses.

 

James had watched as the realisation hit and the Quartermaster's brilliant mind supplied him with all the information of the 6 hours he seemed to have lost track of. The Quartermaster blushed red when he looked at James, but a second later, he flew into a fury like the kind James sort of wanted to never see again. The cold fury was the opposite of what he had seen last night and I was almost... expected but unexpected.

 

The Quartermaster was ruthless as he attacked his brother with logic, with emotional blackmail and sheer verbal abuse until the other man lashed back and the screaming match that ensued was nothing short of epic. It lasted approximately 30 minutes in which James was completely forgotten and he learnt a little more about the Consulting Detectives' living arrangements than he had been truly interested and yet neither of them mentioned the Quartermaster's work or any incident that James could connect to the hazy memory.

 

It was a rescue. That was a good hint, but even with James' good memory, it was hard. But the Quartermaster's brother, had been correct. James had done literally hundreds of rescues, in varying stages. He could remember countless bodies that he held and comforted. Some had made it, others didn't. James hoped that he could remember someone as memorable as the Quartermaster, but he had no doubt that the young man had changed a great deal since the incident. And he would have been filthy, hurt and traumatised and trauma changes people. Even though James can't remember, he almost feels like he can recall the feeling of a head burrowing through his fatigues, straining to listen to his heartbeat and a hand clawing at his chest, wanting to get closer. Its a fleeting feeling and James couldn't tell if it was real or imagined.

 

Still, the two men were nothing if not extraordinary. The shouting match ended almost as abruptly as it began and within moments, they were sitting around discussing the future plans as if here had been no argument and there had been no harsh words exchanged. Eventually, they came to sit at the dining table and the Quartermaster fetched his laptop and pulled one out of a bag for Sherlock. It was only then and James could be sure that neither was inclined to kill each other, that he went to the kitchen.

 

James was used to protection details, which meant that he was used to being in the background, ignored in favour of what was happening. Besides, he had seen the way that the Quartermaster had looked at him, uncomfortable, apologetic and the conflict of wanting to tell James everything, but not being able to. James hadn't had the heart to be upset at that. They would talk. Just not now. Still, James had a better understanding of the 'trauma' that may be effecting his Quartermaster.

 

“No. That cell goes here. Its no doubt connected to the kidnapping-” The Quartermaster's professional voice said.

 

“Wrong. Wrong. Wrong! Don't be daft Oz. It doesn't become you.” Sherlock said and James found himself shaking his head and smiling despite it all. James opened the fridge and was relieved to find broccoli, eggs, milk and ham. Basics, but enough to make omelets for all of them. He also found bread stuck in the freezer and pulled that out to, for defrosting and toasting. As he got to work, James kept an easy but alert ear on the two at the dining table.

 

The arguments continued, but they were over methods and they were far from personal. James had seen, as no doubt Sherlock had, that the Quartermaster had been seriously emotionally hurt from seeing the images of what was his brother's supposed suicide and he was lashing out now that he was relieved. Completely understandable, but James could see that Sherlock failed to see it and moreover, couldn't understand the emotional pain. It was as if he just could not understand the emotions of others, even if he recognised it.

 

James rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt and leaned his hands thoroughly at the tap before he began the food preparation. All that time in the army and living by himself meant that he knew the basics of cooking if nothing else and breakfast? That was a speciality. As James cooked though, he found with some disdain that there was nothing even remotely resembling coffee in the flat and made himself a cup of plain black tea he found in the corner of the cabinet and brewed up a pot of earl grey. Since there was sugar on the table, he only filled up a small milk jar before he took the spoils of his time in the kitchen to the dining table.

 

The two men barely looked up, but James put the tea in the middle, the cups next to them and the milk next to the jar. He put the plate with an omelet and two slices of toast, in front of each man, moving the laptops, ignoring their protests. Sherlock looked indigent, but the Quartermaster, well, he looked flabbergasted, but uninterested in the food. In fact, he was pushing the plate back and reaching for the laptop. Sherlock on the other hand, mumbled a thank you and began eating.

 

James moved so that he put himself between the older Holmes and the Quartermaster. The younger man looked up, his eyes conflicted, full of things he wanted to say, explain and still swimming with emotions that hadn't settled yet. James ignored it all placed his right hand on the back of the Quartermaster's chair and the young man turned his body so that it faced James. Perfect, James thought, as he put his other hand on the table, trapping the young man. He then leaned forward, until his lips was within an inch away from the Quartermaster's.

 

“You need to eat something _Oz_.” James stressed the name and the Quartermaster's eyes both widened with what James could read as pleasure and... realisation of just what James was saying. If nothing else, James had noticed overhearing the conversations, that the Quartermaster of MI6 hadn't been quite honest with his family. They had no idea that he wasn't just a minor technician but the head of the Q Branch. It also seemed like something that the Quartermaster was intent on keeping to himself, if his eyes was any indication.

 

“I – I'm not hungry.” The Quartermaster said, turning his head away, but James reached out and grabbed the young man's face in his hand and he heard the soft gasp from Sherlock, but he ignored it. He focused his attention on the hazel eyes and let his pupils dilate a little, not hard with the Quartermaster's feyish features right before his eyes.

 

“You only have two choices _Oz._ Option one, you feed yourself. A little mundane I suppose, but necessary for your body.” James added speculation and a light tone to his voice as he spoke and he angled his face so that his lips were nuzzling the Quartermaster's neck and tickling his ear as he spoke. As he paused, James closed his lips around the sensitive end of the Quartermaster's ear and nudged the frame of the glasses with his nose. The Quartermaster shivered lightly even as James smirked inwardly.

 

“Option two, I feed you, morsel by morsel.” James said and he let his voice take on the husky tone and the seduction he inserted into his voice with just a mere thought. The Quartermaster's body was coiled up, not with fear or worry, but sexual tension and James had to admit, he loved how easy it was and just how responsive the young man was. James tried to ignore that odd satisfaction and continued, laying small kisses and nuzzling his way through the lithe neck and the sharp jawline, his lips not even an inch against the young man's.

 

“I would prefer option two, personally, but it may be awkward with your brother.” James finished, with a smile in his voice and not a single hint of that husky tone. The Quartermaster's eyes widened from where they had almost gotten hooded and he pulled back from James as if he had been burnt. James laughed and walked back to his own chair. Sherlock too was smiling, but his eyes were calculating as they studied James. James ignored them and watched as the Quartermaster blushed bright red and started on the omelet, almost just do something other than be embarrassed.

 

“So-”

 

“Shut up Sherlock.” The Quartermaster said even before Sherlock had gotten the second word out and this time, both James and Sherlock laughed, unable to resist. James settled down and let himself focus on the food and the hot, strong tea and try not to think about the slightest bulge that had formed in his pants.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the plan had been to upload this for you last night, but I fell asleep. I do apologise for the delay and I hope you all enjoy it... 
> 
> Now, on a serious note. Q in this chapter and the chapters following may seem OC to you. Obviously, there has been some background added to Q's character and I hope that will account for the OCness. But before you make the judgement that Q appears to be out of character, I hope you will consider the difficulties of dealing with trauma. Especially with an incident that is so deeply disturbing such as what Q has gone through (which you will find out soon). Q's reactions in this chapter is almost extreme but it is his body and his mind's way of dealing with the emotional trauma he received. If it does appear to be massively out of whack, by all means, do let me know and I will do what I can to fix it. 
> 
> Hope you do enjoy regardless and I will try to update again tomorrow night or the day after that. 
> 
> P.S. Thank you for all the amazing support - it has been keeping me focused on writing and ensuring that I stay confident with the decisions I make within the story line. Thank you.


	9. Ninth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the two geniuses plan, the soldiers fight and the war begun by one Jimmy Moriarty starts with fire works. 
> 
> Or in which London faces imminent destruction as 006 teams up with 007. Whoever thought Q would be crazy enough to let them work together?

13 November 2012

 

Once the two of them put their brains together and got rid of the arguments, the rest was easy. The pieces fell into place almost like a child's puzzle and the overall plan was set. Q simply monitored the bank accounts for now and their communications, watching the sheer panic that went through the system with the death of Moriarty, (good) but order was restored incredibly quickly and effectively by Sebastian Moran (not good).

 

It also didn't take long for 007 to refer to him as 'Oz'. The words Quartermaster or Q never left the spy's lips and Sherlock also didn't ask. On the other hand, James introduced himself as he was to the consulting detective and whilst there was a raised eyebrow of surprise, Sherlock took that for what it was too. But Q never said 007 or his name. It was too close. A step that Q just wasn't ready to take.

 

Still, Q tinkered with his computer as he mapped out the complete computer network and frowned. He had hoped that he could dismantle most of the network electronically and leave the police and other agencies deal with the rest, but, there were at least four black spots within the system and from the records that he can access, they were the computers that held the records of moles within the police, for example, links to other organisations and the extensive bank records. Things that Q simply needed if he had any hopes in hell of getting rid of the whole organisation.

 

“I need to go out into the field.” Q ended up saying quietly and 007 looked up from where he had been wiring together what looked like an elaborate timed bomb. Sherlock had raised his eyes at it, but he had shown more interest than concern and Q had let the two be as he had worked. 007's eyes narrowed immediately with Q's words and he put down the device and made his way to the dining table, where Q was sitting.

 

As he walked over, Q studied the 00 agent. He wasn't dressed in a suit now. He had made a request and Eve Moneypenny had dropped a bag of 007's clothes and Q had to admit, it was easier to deal with the 00 agent when he was in a suit. At least he was used to that. The tight dark blue jeans and a pale blue cashmere sweater that left no room for imagination was just a little too much. Especially since the agent insisted in rolling up the sleeves until his muscled forearms were revealed. Q focused his attention with difficulty.

 

“Define field.” 007 demanded, moving close enough to look over Q's shoulder. Sherlock looked up too, but not with the same sort of question in his eyes as what 007 had. But then it wasn't Sherlock's job to protect Q. It was 007's.

 

“I need physical access to four of the computers within the network. They are all in London luckily, but separate locations. I need you to get me in and out.” Q demanded and the 00 agent raised his eyebrows and Q knew the answer even before it was spoken.

 

“No. I'm not risking it.” 007 said, folding his arms and standing back, staring down at Q. Q felt the irritation rise and looked him for a good long moment before he went for the phone. 007 raised an eyebrow in question as if asking if Q was serious and Q sighed, putting the phone down.

 

“But I need those computers. Without them, this exercise is futile. The information contained in those computers, from what I can tell, is enough for the organisation to keep rebuilding itself, which is something we clearly want to avoid. Even if we hit the 9 other targets simultaneously with my bringing down the computer networks and destroying their bank accounts, I am going to need to get to the physical computers here in London before this is over. Especially this one.” Q pointed to the map, knowing that he was likely to be pointing to the actual headquarters, if you will, of the organisation. 007 sighed.

 

“Fine. Give me the phone.” He demanded and Q handed it over. The 00 agent dialled a number and waited for just two rings before it was answered. Q heard the distorted voice of a female and knew that it had to be Eve. 007 wasted no time.

 

“Eve, I'm guessing you are aware of the mission I am currently on?” 007 asked into the phone and apparently got a quick answer. He looked over the map that Q had on the computer system and seemed to do some calculations.

 

“I need a few agents. Not just here, but in Nice, Madrid, Rio, Venice, Berlin, Beijing, Tokyo, Seoul and, are you sure about Perth?” 007 asked Q and he simply nodded. He rolled his eyes but confirmed it with Eve. Eve seemed to say something that made 007 roll his eyes.

 

“I know you have agents available Eve. I can hear the deception.” 007 said, but Q held his hand out for the phone and received it. 007, even with his 00 status had no real power to move agents about. His requests were taken seriously, but it would take a Head of Branch to issue actual orders. 007's request would have to go to M and approved before anyone would be sent out. A step Q could avoid. Besides, whilst their mission hadn't really begun until the switches were pressed, it _was_ time sensitive. They needed to hit Moriarty's organisation and its new head as fast as possible and from as many different points as possible to dismantle it. It's the only approach that worked with multi celled organisations like terrorist organisations.

 

“Good morning Miss Moneypenny.” Q said into the phone and heard the soft 'sir,' in response before he continued. Eve and he had a good rapport. They had an understanding but it had become rather strained when Eve had shot 007 and whilst Q hadn't exactly revealed the fact that there was a connection between himself and 007, Eve had accepted that a lot of friendships she had formed in MI6 had become strained after that incident and simply put down Q on that list.

 

“I need a favour Miss Moneypenny. I need agents within the cities mentioned, ready for a strike on the cells of a terrorist organisation. I need at least three or four agents at every location. I also need a few to assist me.” Q said, his voice firm but not cold and Eve seemed to understand. She, of course, would know the parameters of the mission, even if she had no idea exactly _why_ Q himself was out in the mission.

 

'Sir, I can organise the missions in those cities. I also have 006 and 009 available for assistance. M has authorised me to provide you with _every_ resource you need... Q.” Q closed his eyes and opened them as he realised just what that meant. Damn M, he thought. Q really had no right to have asked M to get MI6 involved in this, but it was an international terrorist organisation that did threaten the Queen and Country. Just enough of a link for the mission, but it should have been the work of one 00 agent. Or three A list agents. Not 20% of MI6's considerable resources.

 

“Thank you Eve. I'll discuss it with James and get back to you.” Q said, unable to avoid James' name. The last thing he wanted was to reveal to his far too knowledgeable brother, that he was working with a 00 agent. It would be too telling. He hung up the phone and looked at 007, meeting his eyes and wondering, not for the first time, if he had any idea what he was getting himself into.

 

“She'll set up the other locations and the agents. I will send the mission objectives and set up a time frame. She wanted to let me know that both Alec and Lara was available.” Q said and saw 007's eyes light up. Q had seen the concern in his eyes when he realised that he didn't just have a primary, but a secondary asset, in the form of Sherlock Holmes, to work with and it had been irking 007's sensibilities. Q knew, without a doubt that if it meant protecting Q, 007 would not hesitate putting a bullet through Sherlock's head. That's how 00s worked.

 

“Good. I'll take both. Alec can work protection for Sherlock and Lara can work distance when needed. Alec and I can take care of the London bases.” 007 said with confidence and Q nodded his agreement. He had seen just how explosive the two of them were when they worked together. In fact, Q was certain that the two were separated most of the time because MI6 worried that the two of them may take over a small country just because they were bored or just because they _could_.

 

“I must be mad to voluntarily let the two of you work together.” Q said with a playful groan and 007 laughed in response as he called Eve back and sent a message off to Alec. Q watched it all happen and leaned back in his chair as he considered Sherlock.

 

Their mother, Rosalind Holmes was a formidable woman, powerful, politically and exceptionally intelligent. She had also been a former MI6 agent. She had known the risks of getting married to a Holmes, with political and social exposure it will bring, but she was in love and she had trusted her husband to be strong enough to deal with the outfall. Mycroft Holmes the Elder had been. In fact, he survived 13 assassination attempts and died of stomach cancer. Not pretty, but most definitely not at the hands of anyone else.

 

Rosalind Holmes hadn't been a _warm_ mother per say, but she had been a strong figure and she had made sure that all of her children knew the basics of self defence. Not that it had helped when- Q stopped his thoughts there and looked at Sherlock again. Sherlock had focused more on the training the tutors gave. Sherlock had excelled at boxing and fencing. He had also taken a liking to jujitsu and its focus on pressure points. Q hadn't as much. He didn't have the strength as Sherlock did and he had preferred the efficiency of a cross bow or a firearm.

 

Still. Q knew that Sherlock would fare well in this instance. Unlike Q, who had very little experience in death defying moments, Sherlock was well versed, if John Watson's blog was any indication. Sherlock seemed to notice his look and met his eyes. They looked at each other for a moment, Sherlock's eyes calculating and deductive and Q's eyes merely curious. They looked away at the same time, turning their attention to their work.

 

“Done.” 007 said a moment later and Q hummed his approval as he made up the information packages and set the mission objectives. He prepared the ones for London first and downloaded it all onto a tablet he had brought along from MI6 and handed it to the 00 agent as a distraction. If Alec Trevelyan was to enter the scene, the _last_ _thing_ Q needed was for 007 to be playing to explosives. Q _liked_ London.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

16:44

16 November 2012

 

Alec Trevelyan had to admit that he was impressed. Very impressed, he thought as he ran down the dark narrow hallways. The figure next to him kept up, his breathing hard but then so was Alec's. Both of them were covered in a little more than their own blood, soot and dirt, not to mention gunpowder, but both of them were alright. No small thanks to the other man, Alec thought.

 

Sherlock Holmes.

 

That was the man's name. A name that was so infamous in London now it felt as if Alec had just met with David Beckham, not that David had been that much fun to hang around with anyway, but that was really neither here or there. Focus, Alec told himself as he continued to run, keeping a close eye on his watch.

 

“Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?” Alec asked as he ran and they rounded a corner. Safe enough, Alec thought. He also hoped sincerely that James had been listening and had high tailed out of the basement. They didn't stop running, it would be stupid to, but they did slow down a little.

 

Sherlock was wincing as he breathed and Alec fought the urge to sigh. He really ought to have covered his asset better. But there had been a knife involved, a knife that had left a rather nasty gash on his right forearm, which had been holding one of those handy personalised Walther Q had assigned him. Which was sadly, now a little scratched but _not_ broken, he hoped. Anyway, the moment Alec had dropped the gun and turned, it had been too late and the knife strike had been heading straight to his kidneys.

 

Except Sherlock had lashed out with a perfectly executed roundhouse kick to the head, followed by a open handed strike to the forearm even as the man had been falling backwards to knock the knife out of his hand. Sherlock had been kicked in the ribs a second later, but by the Alec had been able to get his act together again and snap the neck of the man attacking Sherlock and slit the throat of the other man. Payback was a bitch.

 

“Here and there.” Sherlock said with a grin lightly coloured with blood. A busted lip, Alec noted. Nothing more sinister, thankfully. Q would not be pleased if his brother was harmed and the last thing Alec wanted to do was upset Q. Especially not now.

 

There was something fragile about Q. Something that said that a push here and there and Alec was afraid that the young man would break. And Alec _liked_ Q. The last thing he wanted was for the man to break. Then there was James, Alec thought even as he hurried Sherlock along towards the exit.

 

James always took his missions seriously. All 00s did. The fun and games was just that, fun and games and it had nothing to do with the way they conducted themselves on mission. But James, with this mission was completely different. It was almost as James' entire focus was on the Quartermaster and it was not the kind of attention that Alec could call professional. There was an intensity to it that both fascinated and worried Alec.

 

The only other time that Alec had seen the same sort of intensity from James had been with Vesper and the disaster that had been... well, that said it all didn't it? But it was also as if James himself didn't realise it. He was so caught up in his own fascinations and the mission and Alec could see that his friend couldn't separate the intense need to protect that came from the mission and the innate protective instincts Q stirred in James. Something that the young man seemed to manage as easy as breathing, not just to James Bond, Alec noted with a wiry smile as he pulled Sherlock Holmes into the door way of a room just before the entrance.

 

Alec cleared the room quickly and used the moments to make sure that his eyes adjusted to the outside light. He also checked out the windows to see if he can see anyone outside of the door before he pulled Sherlock through the doorway. It was clear. Well. There were a few dead and soon to be dead bodies, but James always did good work, Alec could trust that. So he ran the rest of the way with Sherlock until they were at the fence and he line of trees. He put Sherlock behind a tree and stood a little off to the side even as his head counted down.

 

The blast came just in time and Alec turned his attention Sherlock and when their eyes met, they laughed. It was impossible not to. Because they had just gotten out of a compound of 22 persons, alive and in one piece. Or because they had just seen a big explosion and what more than an explosion to make one feel alive? Or just because. Just because of the adrenalin rushing through their blood and the success of it all. It didn't matter. They shared the laugh and for a moment, forgot about the pains and aches and the blood they had spilt.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

15:20

16 November 2012

 

The smell of burnt flesh seemed to cling to him, Sherlock thought numbly. The human loss didn't bother Sherlock. Neither did the blood or the gore, but he really did not enjoy the smell of explosives clinging to his skin. It reminded him of- Sherlock aborted that chain of thoughts and focused on breathing. It hurt. Sherlock focused on that as he heard the frantic cries of his brother through the ear piece thing he had handed out.

 

His ears were still ringing from the explosion and the laugh he had shared with Alec had been hearty but there was blood on his hand and soot in his hair and on his face and Sherlock wanted to have a shower. First thing first though. Sherlock reassured the younger Holmes. He was fine. There was a bruised rib or two and he was sure that his arm had been grazed either by a firearm or a knife, but that too had stopped bleeding shortly afterwards.

 

The exhilaration and the adrenalin though, kept the pain at bay but Sherlock knew that soon enough that would be gone and he would feel the exhaustion crash through him. Then Sherlock would just wanted to lie down on his couch, the one in 221B Baker Street and ponder the images formed by the leaking roof.

 

They were only done with the first phase of their plan. So far, they were doing well. Oz's request had meant that Moriarty's organisations international branches were hit simultaneously and the damage was extensive. It put Sebastian Moran completely on the defensive. Whilst both Holmes were aware that a dangerous animal backed into a corner was far more dangerous and unpredictable than any other, they had little choice. Other parts of the organisation was breaking apart, some fleeing and others restructuring. According to Oz though, it made his life incredibly difficult. But Sherlock could see that his brother too, enjoyed the game.

 

“We're returning to the safe house.” James said over the ear piece and Alec acknowledged it. The two of them would have to as well, shortly, Sherlock supposed. But they had left the building from the side near the river. There was very little foot traffic and that was excellent but it also meant that they had to go around to find a car. He assumed that Alec and he would be acquiring another car. Not that Alec and James discussed their missions much.

 

It was almost as if they knew what the other was going to do before they did. Sherlock had deduced that they had worked together before, very well in fact and well before they had joined MI6. Neither had confirmed it or denied it, just giving him mysterious smiles. Spies, Sherlock decided, were a lot harder to deduce than others. But the MI5 blubbering idiots, Sherlock had found in the past, had been easy. Perhaps MI6 ones were better trained? Sherlock hypothesised but he required more of a sample before he could come to any conclusions.

 

“I will return to headquarters then.” The female voice, the one spy Sherlock hadn't met yet. James acknowledged that too and moments later, their line cut out. Alec sighed and looked at Sherlock, his eyes calculating.

 

“Lets get us cleaned up a little before we risk the streets.” Alec said and Sherlock had to agree. They were going to attract far too much attention if they went walking about the way they were. A torn jacket or two is enough, but soot and blood? Not a good idea. Alec pulled out two handkerchiefs from his pockets and handed one to Sherlock whilst he kept the other.

 

They wiped the soot away from their faces and shook the dust from their hair and clothes. At least without the dust, they did look a little more presentable. Sherlock's coat was black and it hid the tear and the blood well. Alec's grey wool didn't do the same. Sherlock wondered what he was going to do, but Alec simply took it off and tossed it aside after he transferred the contents to his jacket pockets. Despite the harsh winds, Alec showed no sign of being cold at all.

 

By the time they were presentable enough, the fire engines were beginning to arrive. Given the distance to the crime scene and the interference that Oz had been doing, it was not a bad response time, Sherlock thought as he followed Alec through the woods. It was far too risky to go through the open meadows to the street. They would have to go through the wooded area of the park before they made it to the surrounding streets.

 

“Any serious injuries I need to know about?” Alec asked lightly, even though Sherlock figured that the other man had done catalogue already. Sherlock shrugged and shook his head. Nothing was hurting too bad and he wasn't losing any blood. Though Sherlock knew that Alec had suffered a rather bad cut on the arm, he didn't bandage it or even examine it. Sherlock had a feeling that the man was hyper aware of his own body and its capacity, just as Sherlock was aware of his mind.

 

“Aside from the cut on the arm you have a bruised knee cap, but you are going to ignore that aren't you?” Sherlock asked and Alec turned around with a surprised smile, but he nodded. An ex soldier, Sherlock had deduced. Just like James Bond. Both of them likely to have served together, special forces no doubt. The army taught them how to kill. MI6 taught them how to smile as they did it, Sherlock assumed.

 

It took them another 20 minutes, but they found a car, one that had both of them raising eyebrows but beggars couldn't be choosers. Alec broke into the car without much ceremony and hotwired it with precision and ease that only came with practice. Sherlock watched it with fascination and knew that he could replicate it if required. Not that he liked to drive.

 

The drive was in relative silence, not because they don't have anything to talk about, but because Sherlock didn't want to. The adventure with Alec brought back memories of the adrenalin rushes and adventures he had gone through with John and there was an uncomfortable feeling in his chest that Sherlock was doing his very best to ignore.

 

“Why is MI6 so invested in my brother's well being?” Sherlock asked, not because he thought an answer would be forthcoming, but because he wanted to distract himself from the thoughts haunting his mind. Alec looked away from the road a moment, but he was driving at the speed limit and obeying every other road rule. Sherlock met his eyes evenly. Alec turned his attention back to the road. Alec didn't reply until he removed the ear piece from his ear and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Sherlock did the same.

 

“I would say that it isn't MI6 that is invested in your brother's well being but James Bond... but he might kill me.” Alec answered and Sherlock felt his eyebrows rise. He had thought that was the case, but his deductions, in this case, had less value than what Alec may read, Sherlock assented. He was judging a character without prior knowledge of him and Alec had that necessary knowledge to make the more informed decision.

 

“But surely MI6 is as well, to use so many resources on a case that is hardly in your purview.” Sherlock continued, ignoring the emotional connection or lack there of between his brother and the spy. Alec turned to look at him again, this time with an expression that asked if Sherlock was serious. When Sherlock didn't withdraw the question, Alec answered with a smirk.

 

“You _do_ know that we are spies right? We work with secrets for a living. We are not going to tell you what role your brother plays in our organisation or why MI6 is devoting so many resources to this.” Alec told him with finality in his voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Whether it was that motion or the fact that Sherlock was Oscar's brother, he wasn't sure, but Alec sighed and continued,

 

“Look. I can't tell you what Oz does. But I can tell you that he has saved my arse from very certain death more than a few times with that computer of his. All of us are about the same. We don't forget that sort of debt in MI6.” Alec said with a light tone and this time, Sherlock didn't press it. The traffic was getting bad and Alec was going to start having difficulty telling if they were being followed or not and Sherlock knew that the spy needed to concentrate.

 

The rest of the, what should have been 40, but nightmare traffic turned to 1 hour and 20 minute drive, was spent in silence and light banter when they did talk. When they got to the 'safe' house, Sherlock undid the seatbelt, but the door remained locked until the spy got out and came around to his side. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was no idiot. He understood that the spy had his ways of doing things, especially when it came to missions and since he was a _real_ professional, Sherlock wasn't about to interfere with that.

 

Sherlock let the man crowd him, covering him casually with an arm wrapped around Sherlock's waist to lead him to the nondescript and innocuous apartment building. They didn't head up to the third floor straight away, but waited until the agent could confirm that everything seemed to be normal.

 

They didn't take the elevator. Alec didn't let him. Instead, they walked up the stairs, Alec going first as usual. Sherlock followed the lead and walked, wondering just how Alec managed to stay so bloody silent with the dress shoes. He would have to do some experiments later, Sherlock decided.

 

They reached the third floor and walked out into the corridor and with the safety of their safe house nearby, Alec seemed to relax, just a fraction and Sherlock wondered just what spies would be like in the safeties of their own home or in their offices. But he was reminded sharply of the incident of MI6 blowing up and wondered if Oz had been here. He hoped not. He would have to ask him, Sherlock decided.

 

“A scotch I think. God I hope-” The spy stopped abruptly as he opened the door to the flat. He froze for just a second and he was moving, his centre of body dropping a little lower, his gun in his hand before Sherlock had even noticed it. Sherlock could feel the heavy _something_ dropping in his stomach and he rushed forward too. But Alec beat him to it. Alec walked through all of the rooms whilst Sherlock remained frozen at the doorway.

 

There was blood in the flat.

 

The blood was pouring out of a man that was bleeding to death right before Sherlock's eyes, but that was of no concern really. That man is nothing. Sherlock didn't recognise him so it's okay. No Oscar and no James. That is not something Sherlock is okay with. Especially Oscar.

 

Sherlock is a sociopath, or at least always announced that he was. But, Sherlock had always known that all of that went out the window when it came to Oscar and Mother and maybe even Mycroft, if he was being generous. And now, of course, John. But Oscar. Oscar was his baby brother. Sherlock had seen him from the moment he had been born and Mycroft and Sherlock had both raised him, making sure that he was protected and if not sheltered, at least uniformly informed.

 

They had failed once but they had been given a second chance. But now-

 

“Snap out of it man. We need to get out of here.” Alec said harshly and Sherlock snapped out of as requested. They weren't there. Which meant that they could have been taken, but it also meant that they could simply have escaped. Oh yes. Sherlock could deal with that. He focused his attention.

 

Alec led them back down the stairs and out of the back door and run through three blocks, mostly through the alleyways before they can be sure that they aren't being traced. Sherlock had to admit that it wasn't exhilarating and the adrenalin pumping through his blood made him more nauseous than anything else. Alec seemed to be just about the same.

 

“Throw the phone out.” Alec said as he led by example and threw his phone out as they ran. Sherlock did the same and it didn't take Alec long to find them another car and best of all, with a phone in it. The spy had slipped the ear piece back in as they had been running and Sherlock had done the same, but no matter how many times they called, there was no response.

 

Alec still didn't break any of the speed limits as he drove and Sherlock had no idea where they were headed to, but Alec seemed to have a destination in mind. He didn't explain it to Sherlock and Sherlock didn't ask. Time for curiosities were later, when he knew that Oscar was okay. That gave Sherlock pause. Was this what Oscar felt when he watched that video of Sherlock's 'suicide'? And if it was, then Sherlock really needed to apologise to him, Sherlock decided.

 

“Secure line request. Requesting agent Alec Trevelyan.” Alec put the phone on loudspeaker so that he can drive and to ensure that no police would stop them, Sherlock assumed. Through the line though, Sherlock can hear a female voice typing on the computer before she asked the question.

 

“Your designation please.” Alec turned to look at Sherlock for a second and sighed. The frustration was palpable, so was the possible explosive violence in the man, but Sherlock knew that it was unlikely to be directed towards him.

 

“Designation... 006.” Alec said and Sherlock felt his eyes widen. Not many people knew about the 00 division. It was a well kept secret only select few members of the government and royals knew. Sherlock only knew because of Mother, but he knew what it meant. There was only ever nine 00 agents and they had a licence to kill. No wonder then, Sherlock thought back to just how capable the two of them had been. If Alec was a 00, James certainly was one too, Sherlock assumed.

 

“You are confirmed sir. Shall I put you through to M or to the Q Branch sir?” The operator asked, her voice professional but careful and a little awed. Sherlock felt his eyes narrow this time. M, short for Manager. What MI6 called the head of the organisation and the Q Branch, the Quartermaster Branch, where all equipment and technological issues were handled.

 

“Put me through to both. I need to speak to M and R.” Alec demanded to the phone and the clicks sounded immediately. Alec's voice, Sherlock noted, lost all the jokes and lightness they had held so far during their interaction. But then Sherlock was still reeling from the fact that his brother working with two of the most highly trained assassins in Great Britain. It was also starting to draw Sherlock a picture of just how high up his brother may be in the organisation. R, not Q.

 

“Q Branch, Rose speaking. I have Miss Moneypenny with me. M is in a meeting. How may we be of assistance?” A delicate female voice asked and Alec gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

 

“Has 007 reported in?” The spy asked, his voice terse and the effect of his words were unexpectedly large. Sherlock heard the gasp from two distinct female voices then sound of fast typing and flurry of movement and orders being barked by another female.

 

“Fuck Alec. You were supposed to keep him safe.” The female voice that hadn't spoken before, Eve, Sherlock deduced, hissed and it was filled with pure anger.

 

“The safe house got compromised. We have a leak. Track 007 down and keep the fucking information between yourselves and send it to my usual.” Alec said, anger palpable. Sherlock looked at him with some surprise and respect. Sherlock had thought the same. With how careful James was with Oz, it was nay impossible for him to have made a mistake. They were found because someone from MI6 had leaked the information. How did-

 

“Is it related to what you are doing now or do I need to pull the plug?” Eve asked. Alec looked at Sherlock again and released a deep breath.

 

“It's impossible to say. They could be targeting him personally or not. For now though, we just need to find them.” Alec replied and the agreement was there. Alec hung up the phone a second later and threw it out of the moving car. Sherlock watched the buildings going past and found that he couldn't even feel triumphant. He had finally figured out what his brother did and it meant absolutely nothing without Oz being there. Apparently Sherlock couldn't be sociopath today.

 

No. today? He cared.

 

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. 
> 
> The comments have been utterly fantastic and the response has been overwhelming so far. Especially thank you to those that commented on the characterisation. I had been feeling insecure and a little worried that they were going OC without my permission (characters do that), but the comments gave me the boost of confidence I needed to go ahead and write without second guessing myself every step of the way. 
> 
> Its an earlier update than usual but I figured you guys deserve it and I do have 5 more chapters written up so I should share the love =P 
> 
> I also realised I got Sherlock's eye colour wrong, shows you how studiously I've been avoiding watching Sherlock again (because once I start, I can't stop watching it over and over again... do you I know I have most of Sherlock's lines memorised? and Moriarty's of course. Oh~ I know. I have issues XD) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the latest offering and by all means, please let me know when I screw something up and any suggestions, firing squads etc will be taken into serious account!


	10. Tenth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John is broken, Mycroft is angry and Q finds himself lost in the sound of a heartbeat. 
> 
> Or in which Mycroft plans Sherlock's indentured slavery to John Watson and in which Q finds out what being a field agent means. 
> 
> Warnings: Graphic violence and Emotional Trauma and shock

17:50

16 November 2012

 

As soon as they had returned to the safe house, James had shoved the Quartermaster into the shower and made him clean up so that James could treat the superficial cut on his arm and the scrapes on his knee from when he had fallen over. James also saw the dark bruise on his arm. Just seeing the mark reminded James of the way his heart had missed a beat as he realised that the young man was in the line of fire. James had grabbed the arm, with far too much force and pulled the Quartermaster to safety. But it had been close. Too close.

 

Whilst the Quartermaster had been showering, James cleaned his gun and squared away the equipment. When the water stopped running, James had waited outside of the bathroom and watched the young man emerge in simple tracksuit pants and a t-shirt. The flat was warm enough for that. James had then all but dragged the young man out of the bathroom and into the bedroom with clear directions to lie down and sleep.

 

But by the time that James had showered, cleaned the long knife cut he had sustained along his thigh and returned to the bedroom, he found it empty. James expelled a rather large, but expectant sigh before he walked out to the lounge room, where he could hear the pita pata of the keyboard.

 

As expected, James found his Quartermaster seated on the lounge, laptop balanced precariously over his knee, tapping away. He was no doubt gathering information and pulling a plan together for the rest of their missions. Something, as far as James was concerned, could be done later. Much later.

 

“You need to rest Q.” James stated firmly, standing near the entrance of the lounge room. He leaned against the wall, knowing that with just the tracksuit pants on and his upper body still damp from the heat of the bathroom, that he formed a rather attractive picture. The Quartermaster looked up and James saw the eyes dilate just a little before he ducked his head again.

 

“I'm not tired.” The Quartermaster replied but there was something a little off about that tone, a sort of distance that James recognised. Shock and trauma. James swore inwardly at himself. He should have recognised the signs. Through the whole process, after the adrenalin had run off and he had been taking care of his Quartermaster, he had been a little too compliant, as if his mind was far, far away. James had thought it was just exhaustion. Fuck.

 

“Yes you are.” James said as he unfolded himself from the wall and moved towards the Quartermaster. James took the laptop from pliant hands and the Quartermaster lifted his head, looking like a deer caught in headlights as those hazel eyes met with James' blue ones through the filter of the Quartermaster's glasses.

 

“You are tired Q. Come to bed with me.” James said, letting in a subtle hint of seduction into his tone. The Quartermaster didn't react to it, but he did take the hand that James offered to help him up. James moved in close and carefully wrapped his left arm around the Quartermaster's waist, settling his hand at the small of his back. Watching for any signs of tension, James raised his right hand and stroked the younger man's face, loving the feeling of the silky skin underneath his hand. His Quartermaster leaned into the touch.

 

“You are exhausted and need to sleep.” James whispered softly as the Quartermaster's eyes slid shut and he leaned his head against James' hand. Slowly, James let his hand travel till he was cupping the side of the Quartermaster's neck in his hand, stroking his thumb along his jaw.

 

“You are safe now. I promise nothing bad will happen. I won't let it.” James said carefully and softly, his voice a soft lilt to keep the Quartermaster relaxed under his hand and words. It worked like a charm and soon enough, the Quartermaster was following James to the bedroom.

 

It didn't take much coddling for James to get the young man into bed and under the warm blanket. As trained as James was, he still suffered from exhaustion and protecting someone usually meant that James' alert level was increased by two-fold and it exhausted him much faster than usual. James closed and locked the bedroom door and settled besides the Quartermaster. James wondered for a moment whether it would be entirely too inappropriate for him to hold the young man in his sleep, but the Quartermaster made the decision for him.

 

“I- Could- damn.” The young man swore softly but James saw what he wanted, what he needed and he lifted the blanket between them and the Quartermaster took he invitation, moving in close till he settled himself over James. It didn't escape James' notice that the young man was laying his head over James' heart or that whatever tension had been left in his body drained out the moment James felt the weight over his chest.

 

The Quartermaster's breathing slowed down till it was clear that he had fallen asleep. James released a breath he hadn't even realised he had been holding and wrapped an arm around the young man's shoulders and used the other to stroke the damp curls. With the warm comforting weight on his body, it didn't take James to fall into the shallow sleep he usually fell into during his missions.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

21:00

16 November 2012

 

Mycroft Holmes looked at the man before his eyes and couldn't help but clench his fist to stop the outpouring of anger. When this mess was cleaned up, he was going to have to have a very long and very stern chat to his brother, Mycroft thought. Mycroft did dearly love his brother, how could one not? But this was- Mycroft released the breath he had been holding and walked confidently into the room as he always did.

 

“John.” Mycroft called. The man didn't even move. It was as if he heard no sound. The man was seated, no curled up in an armchair, the one Mycroft knew Sherlock preferred. John was as still as if he was a statue, eyes glassed over and and fingers clutching the fabrics of Sherlock's favourite dressing gown.

 

It had been almost expected, of course, Mycroft realised. He should have come sooner, checked on John rather than running around ensuring that Sherlock's temporary death remained that, temporary. There would have to be a funeral of course, but there was no death certificate and there was certainly no dissolution of Sherlock's worldly possessions. But really, he had thought John stronger than-

 

Oh God, Mycroft realised. John _was_ strong. He wasn't escaping from the pain like so many others did. There was no alcohol, there was no drugs and there certainly were no distractions. The man was sitting stoically, drowning himself only in the memories of Sherlock and letting the pain and the sorrow overwhelm him until he couldn't even shed tears.

 

“Oh John.” Mycroft almost whispered as he strode forward and laid a careful hand on John's shoulder. John looked up, slowly, almost in a dazed manner. Mycroft looked at the man that had been if not bright, at least contented, ex-army doctor. John blinked his eyes once, twice and for the third time before he seemed to see Mycroft.

 

“He's not here.” John said with a broken, empty voice and Mycroft felt himself almost chock with the sympathy he felt. He knew what loss felt like. So he leant over John and tried to think of something comforting to say. He couldn't. So Mycroft went for the practical.

 

“John, when was the last time you ate?” Mycroft asked and John looked at him in that dazed, empty manner before he shook his head.

 

“Can't.” John said and Mycroft nodded. He hadn't been able to either. Except others had made him. Others like Oz and Sherlock. There had been cajoling and threats, but he had eaten just enough to get by. John, from what Mycroft gathered, didn't have anyone that could do that for him. Even Mycroft simply wasn't close enough to the other man for that.

 

“Come on John, lets get you some food.” Mycroft said as he tried to get John Watson out of the chair. John didn't fight him and did make the valiant attempt to stand up. Mycroft helped where he could, but he needn't have bothered. The moment John was just half standing, the other man's face drained of the little colour that had been there and his knees gave out completely and his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

 

“Damn. Anthea!” Mycroft called out as he struggled under the weight of the unconscious doctor. Mycroft lowered him as carefully as he could to the ground and turned him on his side, pulling his knee up to put him in the recovery position, but the doctor was clearly out cold. Mycroft swore that he would make Sherlock pay for it.

 

It didn't matter how long it took, Mycroft decided. Sherlock was going to have to make up for what he had done and if it meant that Sherlock had to leave the doctor's life, so be it. If it meant that Sherlock had to live with the doctor for the rest of his life, obeying every whim, then that was something Mycroft was willing to engineer. It was a debt the Holmes family owed John Watson.

 

“Sir?” Andrea asked as she came into the room, but as soon as she saw Mycroft kneeling by the unconscious doctor, she sprang into action. She called an ambulance. Then the private hospital they utilised in London. Then she sent an email to an anonymous email account Oscar had set up for their communications. Mycroft stood up with some difficulty and sat down in the chair John usually sat in. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes.

 

“I am so sorry John. I really am.” Mycroft said to the unconscious man as Andrea, or Anthea as John knew her, came back with a blanket she had fetched from John's bed. She laid it over his form and stood back. She checked her Blackberry and waited till Mycroft turned his attention her.

 

“Sir, I have confirmation from both the hospital and the ambulance. ETA is 8 minutes.” Mycroft nodded as he reminded himself to get back to Oscar and check on how long their plan was going to take. If it took much longer Mycroft was going to have to take some drastic measures. Whilst Sherlock's plan was imperative for John's future safety, as well as those of others involved with Sherlock, it would all mean nothing if John was broken beyond repair. It was an unacceptable outcome.

 

“Should I arrange for the funeral as you initially outlined sir?” Andrea asked and Mycroft nodded. He had hoped to get John's input into the funeral arrangements and put on the show for the nervous idiots watching from the flat opposite 221B. It was imperative that they believe in Sherlock's death and monitor John but not approach. Despite it all, Sherlock had taken the actions he did because in his own misguided ways, he was hoping to save John. Protect him. Mycroft could respect that, even if he couldn't agree.

 

“Sir I have an email from-” Andrea began, breaking into Mycroft's thoughts, then paused. Mycroft looked at her, expectantly as her eyes widened and she moved, faster than Mycroft had ever seen before and then everything happened at once; Andrea's body slamming into his, the sound of glass shattering and the wind being knocked out of his body as it hit the hard wooden floor boards.

 

Even as he felt Andrea's body cover his in a futile attempt to shield him from the glass and bullets, Mycroft's mind raced. He didn't need to know the contents of Oscar's email, Mycroft thought grimly as he dug around in his pocket and found the duress button. He pressed it firmly and let Andrea crowd him until her much smaller body covered the more important areas of his.

 

“Oscar said that-” Andrea began, her voice still calm. Mycroft sighed and completed the sentence with the bitter taste of a lost battle on his tongue.

 

“He's been compromised.”

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

20:08

16 November 2012

 

It was just an hour and 15 minutes later when James' eyes snapped open. His right hand reached and found the gun on the bedside table and the next movement had him moving out of the bed, sweeping the Quartermaster into his arms and blankets and all. James moved, half an eye on the door even as he walked to the corner of the bedroom and laid the Quartermaster on the floor on the other side of the bed, away from the door. Without James' steady heartbeat, the Quartermaster was beginning to stir, but he remained quiet.

 

It was only then that James pushed the small button on the bedside table to turn off the lights flashing irregularly on the ceiling. The flat's silent alarm was going off. All MI6 safe houses had them and A list and above agents were trained to wake up only with the small light blinking directly above their heads. Nothing more.

 

James turned his attention to the iPad that the Quartermaster had set up and gripped the Walther PPK a little tighter. Three men that were most definitely not MI6 were entering the flat. They were dressed in fatigues and moving into the safe house with the kind of caution one would use when infiltrating a foreign government's military bunker. James took a deep breath.

 

James moved to the door of the bedroom just as the lock was forced open and when the man came through, James grabbed the gun arm with one hand and after throwing his gun on the bed, twisted around to grab the man's neck in a fast and brutal movement and snapped it. James carefully and quietly laid the man down near the bed, making sure that his path and that of the Quartermaster would be clear before he picked up his gun again.

 

By this time, James noted that the Quartermaster was wide awake. James figured it must have been the sound of crunching bones, but he couldn't be certain. The Quartermaster, James had found over the last couple of days, had great difficulty waking up. In fact, he went through the morning routine as if he was still asleep and he only seemed to notice other people and other things when the earl grey tea his palate. But, the Quartermaster was completely awake now.

 

Just as James turned back around from the Quartermaster, another man came through the door. James shot him straight in the head without a second's hesitation. The Quartermaster had come to crouch on the floor next to James, leaning out carefully, Walther PPK in hand. Before James could duck out too, the Quartermaster let off two rounds into the living room. The Quartermaster ducked back in, but both of them heard the sound of the man falling. James looked at the young man with something akin to surprise, but the Quartermaster was decidedly ignoring him and he was moving.

 

In quick movements, the Quartermaster grabbed his iPad and charger, throwing it into a backpack. Unerringly, the young man picked up all their equipments, like their phones and so forth all into the bag before he got up. There was nothing else they needed. James moved too, changing into his clothes and leaving everything else behind. The Quartermaster struggled into his jacket before he slung the bag pack on and then went to find his glasses.

 

James had discovered, with some pleasure, that whilst the Quartermaster was prescribed his glasses, they were mostly worn for programming and eye protection than out of true need. It also wasn't much of a surprise for James to learn that those glasses had mics and earpieces built into them. Not to mention a GPS that the Quartermaster can turn on by a certain phrase, or if the glasses become broken. The Quartermaster had explained it when James had asked about safety protocols.

 

“007, we need to-” James looked up, almost surprised to hear his designation from the Quartermaster's lips again after the days of not being called _anything_. But when James looked up and saw him, James stopped moving about, collecting their weapons and went to the young man.

 

James had his first, second and even seventh kill in quick succession, all during the same mission, whilst under heavy gunfire. James hadn't had the time to dwell on the fact that he had ended a life. He had been conditioned and trained and psychologically prepared for it. He had been a commando going into a hostile situation with the awareness that he _was_ going to pull the trigger and kill someone that day. The Quartermaster of MI6 hadn't.

 

The Quartermaster, no doubt, was well trained in weaponry but Quartermasters weren't meant to be firing them at human targets. They weren't meant to be out in the field where such acts become necessary. In fact, as the young man had put it, when a trigger had to be pulled, men like James Bond became their guns and their triggers. It should have stayed that way.

 

Even as James moved, the Quartermaster's eyes were glued on the figure of the man that he had shot, unerringly. Two rounds to the centre body mass. A lot easier said than done, especially when the two shots are fired in rapid succession. James had to admit, he felt oddly proud that his Quartermaster had managed so well. But the young man obviously wasn't dwelling on the success. His eyes were on the shallow, painful rise and fall of the man's chest as he took what could very well be his last breath.

 

James blocked the view bodily and reached over to the Quartermaster until he could hold the young man's chin with his right hand. The moment he did though, James felt an irrational fear that maybe his Quartermaster didn't want to be touched. Not so soon after James had broken a man's neck with it, taken a life with it, but the Quartermaster relaxed into the touch, just like before.

 

“It's okay.” James found himself saying in a soft, reassuring voice as he used his other arm to wrap it around his Quartermaster.

 

“It's okay. You did what you had to do to protect yourself and me.” James said and as he finished, he saw the young man's eyes widen as the realisation hit him too. James had read it in his actions, but it seemed the Quartermaster was unaware of his own instincts. He ought to have, James thought.

 

People don't join the police or military or intelligent organisations because of money. Power maybe? But not money. And _most_ people enter those kinds of organisations because they want to help and because they want to protect. James knew that even the administrative staff at MI6 would put themselves in harms way if they believed it was necessary to protect their country. It was that kind of loyalty and desire to protect that made their stressful job worth it. It was why he did it and it was why all the 00s went through everything they did and still came back for more.

 

The Quartermaster was no different. James had known it the moment he had met the Quartermaster and moments after. The man wielded his genius like a weapon and used it all to protect the agents that relied on him, for information, for guidance and for their equipment and now, the Quartermaster had voluntarily taken a life. James knew that if the young man had stopped to think about it, he would have known that James could have taken care of the third man. There had been no need for the Quartermaster to take it into his own hands. But he had. Apparently James understood it better than the young man did.

 

“I-” James smiled reassuringly when his Quartermaster blinked and thought of something to say. The young man was rapidly sinking back into shock and James couldn't allow that. He carefully looked the young man in the eyes spoke.

 

“Q, we need to leave. I need you to hack into the safe houses' cameras and destroy the footage of us having been here. I'm going to get us out of here and somewhere safe. Can you do that for me?” James asked and the young man nodded with a dry swallow. The Quartermaster of MI6 took a deep breath and visibly gathered himself together and got to work as James threw on the winter coat and the backpack, wrapping a hand around the Quartermaster's arm and leading him out of the room even as the young man absorbed himself in the hacking.

 

James led the Quartermaster out of the flat and then out of the building, carefully crowding him and absolutely alert for any other assassins that may be lurking. James found them a car and hotwired it with ease and the Quartermaster slipped in without a word of complaint. James drove, efficiently and calculatingly, observing the traffic patterns, the cars behind him and the route itself to ensure that he could not be followed to what James hoped would be a location only Alec would associate with him. Even as he did all that though, James kept thinking.

 

James was no genius, but he was a man that had been playing the spy game for almost 12 years now. He knew of only one way the assassins could have been sent to the safe house and it pissed him off far more than it ever would have done.

 

When he found the bastard that had leaked the information, James was going to take some great pleasures utilising the persuasion techniques he rarely utilised, but was fantastic at. The Quartermaster seemed oblivious though as he typed away on his iPad and James let him concentrate, not daring to break that concentration, knowing that when it did, James would find himself with a shivering wreck of a Quartermaster to deal with.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

21:43

16 November 2012

 

Q felt cold. He felt as if his fingertips were frozen and even in the warmth of the hotel lobby, Q couldn't stop himself from shivering. He also felt distanced, not from his own mind, as medication usually made it happen, but from his surroundings. The only thing that felt solid was the warm hand against his lower back and the handful of the hard woollen coat in his right hand.

 

“A second floor room would be good, if possible. My darling is a little scared of heights.” Q heard and his mind, as frazzled and frail as it was, seized on the warm familiar voice. Q let himself take comfort from the voice and moved in closer until he could lay his head against the wool covered chest.

 

It wasn't enough.

 

The thick wool didn't let Q feel the warmth that lay just underneath the surface, or hear the comforting, lethargic thumps of the heartbeat. Q found himself wanting more, needing more but he didn't know how to ask for it, or what he had to do. He simply pawed at the coat but his hand was caught in warm calloused hand and that skin to skin contact was almost enough. For the moment.

 

Through the buzzing in Q's brain, Q thought he heard another voice, a female one, high pitched and giggly, but none of the words registered. It wasn't what Q was looking for. He focused on the warm, comforting tones resonating from the chest his head was leaning against. The chest vibrated softly with the voice.

 

“Yes that would be perfect. Thank you for your help.” The voice said, warm and soft and full of good spirit. Q found that he didn't like the falsity of it and frowned a little. Then they were moving. Q felt his legs move in time with the person holding onto him. The arm moved from his lower back to his shoulders and the held him tightly and Q felt safe in those arms, so he followed.

 

Even as Q walked the corridors and rode the elevator for a short period, everything was blurry and inconsequential outside of the comfort of the warm arms around his shoulders and the man holding him. Within minutes, or was it hours? They were inside of a room. A lavish room. Then the man moved till Q was seated on the bed. Q let himself sink down onto the bed, enjoying the closeness of that comforting heat, but it was gone a second later.

 

Q looked down at his hands and thought that they looked frail. A little too thin, a little too long, hands that were more used to the keyboard of a computer or the ivory keys of the piano in the music room of the Baskerville Estate, or the Holmes Estate in London. Not for-

 

Q noticed the muffling noises of curtains being closed, water being poured and footsteps moving along the soft plush carpet. Did all the noises happen at the same time or did it happen over a period of time? Q couldn't tell. He kept looking at his hands until the warmth was back and there were hands covering his own.

 

“Q? Look at me.” The comforting, warm voice demanded but Q kept his eyes on the hands covering his. They were darker than his, tastefully tanned unlike his own pale ones. The hands felt warm and calloused all in the right places. The hands were bigger than his, each finger thicker and stronger than his own. There were also tiny little scars on those hands and fresh abrasions on the right hand.

 

“Please Q. Look at me.” The voice asked full of concern and Q looked up, surprised at the pleading tone. That voice was always strong, not needing to ask for anything, but just take it as it was due to him. It wasn't this time. Q met the blue eyes and noted that they were filled with worry and concern and something almost like fear. He also noticed with a start that the man was kneeling before him, keeping their faces level. Everything fell into place.

 

James.

 

“James?” Q found himself voicing, without realising that he was doing it. The other man nodded and let go of his hands and Q used his trembling hands to caress the other man's face, his fingers delicately brushing over the creases of laughter lines and weathered planes. The other man closed his sky blue eyes, leaning into Q's touch and Q let himself explore, letting his fingertips brush against the eyelids, the soft long eyelashes and brush his fingers along the strong jawline.

 

Q lowered his hands until they were resting on the neck of the man before him. Q let his hands cradle the other man's neck, noticing with some distant thought that his hands wrapped comfortably around the man's neck. With a start he realised that the trained assassin under his hand had allowed such a move when by all rights his instincts would have flinched against it.

 

“James.” Q whispered as he loosened his hands and let them cradle the man's weathered face. He blue eyes opened, darker now with desire colouring them and met Q's.

 

“Q.” James whispered back and then there was nothing holding him back. Q surged forward just as James did and their lips met in a kiss that should have been crushing, but was soft and gentle, as if they could not bear to be harsh.

 

James kissed his lips as if he was worshipping it. James' lips were warm but dry and Q found his own cold lips warm through the touch. Then everything blurred as James lowered him to the bed and climbed on top of him, his hands careful and his movements just as gentle as the kiss was. His hand cradled Q's head as his fingers carded the curls. Q moaned and James licked into his mouth and Q opened his lips wider, granting permission to the begged entry.

 

Then the gentleness turned into desperation. Q let his first taste of James' mouth overwhelm him as the assassin expertly stroked Q's tongue with his own and slipped Q's glasses off his face and threw it somewhere. Q didn't care where. The taste of steel, adrenalin and just a hint of blood was enough for Q. He let all of that wash away the fear, the anguish and the pain that had accumulated over the days.

 

James' hand was gentle but firm as it kneaded Q's scalp, Q moaned as the hand moved to his neck and he let his hands wander too, moving to hold James' neck and back. Then it wasn't enough. He wanted to feel the hard muscles under his curious fingers and he wanted to feel the blood thumping under his own hands.

 

“James, James, James.” Q called desperately when the other man drew back just for a second to let Q catch his breath and he seemed to understand what Q himself didn't know how to ask for. Just like before. Just as he had done 10 years ago. James leaned down to kiss Q's lips again, softer this time, more exploratory than clamouring and Q flowed into it, moving his hands so that they were inside of the thick winter coat than outside. Then the weight of it was gone.

 

“It's okay Q. I've got you. It's okay.” James said breathlessly as he took off the sweater he was wearing underneath and Q's hands met bare skin. Finally. Q felt the strength coiled underneath the skin and almost wept as the desperation turned itself into desire. Sharp, needy desire.

 

Q stroked the strong back, feeling the muscles move under his hands as James moved, his hands unbuttoning Q's jacket, pushing it away from his shoulders and moving onto the thin shirt. Q let the kiss distract him from it all and between one kiss to another, Q's bare chest met James' and then the desire that had been coiling, controlled, became loose.

 

“God.” James groaned when Q's desperate moves brought their groins together and the pleasure overwhelmed them both for a little while. Q felt his eyes roll back into his head and let his head fall back into James' strong hand as James took it as permission and drove into Q's neck even as he ground their hips together again and again until both of them were gasping.

 

“Please, please.” Q muttered as he moaned and he felt the daft hands moving until they were undoing his belt, his trousers and pulling them all away. He then could feel the strong hand moving to cup his erection, bare skin meeting his own heated skin and felt a tear slip through his closed eyes as the pleasure became overwhelming.

 

“Shhh.” James hushed and Q moaned as he sought out James' lips again. The assassin began moving his hands, calloused hands firm and dry and warm. The rhythm was erratic, not the practised, calculated movements they had been in Q's office, behind the opaque glass. There was more heat, more desperation and more... everything and Q wasn't going to last against the tide of pleasure that swept through.

 

“James I'm go-” Q tried, but he couldn't say another word as the the passionate movements ripped the orgasm from Q's body. Q trembled through it all, letting out a keen that was quickly eaten up by the warm lips. Even as the pleasure overwhelmed him, Q felt his eyes flutter shut and everything bar the sharp pleasure, dull around him.

 

Q could feel James' heat against his own, James wrapping his hand not just Q, milking the last of the orgasm out of him, but James' own and Q couldn't tell how long it took, but James' spilt seeds joined his as the man above him moved languidly against him and Q felt the frayed edges of his consciousness begin to slip.

 

“It's okay Q. I'll be here. It's okay.” James whispered over and over again and Q let that soothe him into dreamless sleep.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roster changes are evil. But it worked out well for you, my faithful, supportive beautiful readers, as I have time to post and not just crash on the bed for a 12 hour coma. I hope you enjoyed this offering. The fic is surprisingly going in ways I hadn't expected but that's the joys of writing isn't it? I also feel like I just worked out a huge problem I had and it's kind of amazing and I can't wait share it with you all! 
> 
> A very heartfelt thank you to everyone that has commented. It keeps me going and confident in the decisions that I make. Thank you. (I'm quite sure my colleagues thinks I must be going slowly crazy with the way I smile at my phone every half hour if I can). 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and I will post the next chapters when I have a few more chapters to spare (I like having at least 6 or 7 chapters ahead XD)


	11. Eleventh Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and Alec frets and panics and worries and Alec finds out that Sherlock is just a proud brother after all. 
> 
> And in which James remembers the broken voice of one Oscar Holmes calling his name... 
> 
> Or in which Alec takes Sherlock to a dingy internet cafe and James Bond exercises his right to drink!

22:59

16 November 2012

 

Sherlock was a bundle of nervous energy, Alec noted as he too tapped at the table in front of him. It was hard not to be. They didn't discuss the conversation that occurred in the car and now they were seated in a rather dingy little internet cafe with decidedly no security. No cameras, no id checks. Just good cold hard cash that Alec had in abundance. Cash left no trails. It also talked.

 

“Contact will come through Skype on an account that has been completely vetted by the Q Branch, which is-”

 

“Your Quartermaster Branch, a branch responsible for your computer networks, information and equipment. The branch my brother _belongs_ to.” Sherlock finished before Alec could and the spy had to ask the question, at least in his head if not out aloud, who the fuck was this man?

 

The Quartermaster hadn't explained the existence of the other man, beyond the mission details required. The only thing that had been left out had been that the other man was his brother, but the Quartermaster hadn't even had to explain that. There was no way anyone could mistake their familial resemblance.

 

It wasn't just the floppy mop of hair, the mess of auburn curls, but the sharp, intelligent eyes and the distinct facial structure that gave them all away. Beyond that, it was in their manner of speech, the kind that only true upper class upbringing could have instilled in them. Alec could fake it and James was born into it, but to both of _them,_ it was just like breathing. Natural. Then there was the born arrogance that came with entitlements, trust accounts and natural command and charisma that came from having servants see to every whim from childhood. Something Alec could never hope to replicate. Not for long.

 

“It should-” Alec started again but was cut off by the Skype phone ringing. Both of them put their earphones on and Alec pressed 'Accept' on the call. Alec would have preferred it if the other man hadn't been listening in, but the cat was out of the bag. If the other man knew what the Q Branch was, he was sure to know what the 00 agents were and whilst Alec would have believed anyone else to be incapable of making the connection, he knew better with Sherlock Holmes, the one and only Consulting Detective.

 

“006.” The cool voice that came through wasn't that of Eve, or R but M. Alec's rubbed his eyes. There was no video chat fortunately but damn. Sherlock raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. Alec ignored it in favour of answering his boss.

 

“Sir.” Alec replied and prepared himself. The instructions when he had been ordered to go to the safe house where 007 and the Quartermaster had been... explicit. Do not let the Quartermaster come to _any_ harm at all. That was to be the one and only purpose to the mission. Except, now Alec had gone and lost him. With James, which was mildly better, but still, lost.

 

“Where is he.” M's voice was tight, full of anger, frustration, stress and not a little bit of worry. Alec was mildly surprised by that, but he ignored it and tried not to sigh into the mic.

 

“We were separated sir. 007 and the asset was in one location whilst I was at the other with a secondary asset, being the primary asset's brother.” Alec explained, knowing that he was probably going to get a nasty mission somewhere in the windy caves of Sahara Desert for this. M sighed.

 

“I never should have agreed to this.” M said, frustration clear, but he hadn't had a choice really. No one that knew the Quartermaster doubted it. He would have done what he wanted to do and had done it in such a way that MI6 would have had to become involved and at least, it was better in that they knew what they were into before it happened. A much, much better start than the Quartermaster falling into it on his own. Sort of.

 

“Sir, we both know the asset. He would have-” Alec started, but was interrupted by a flurry of activity on M's end. He looked at Sherlock and saw that the other man was leaning back in his chair as if the uncomfortable swivel chairs was a throne. He looked utterly at home. He was also rolling his eyes.

 

“Must we continue with this subterfuge? Did your mundane little brain really think I wouldn't have figured out just what role my brother played in your precious MI6?” Sherlock asked, his voice almost bored and annoyance clear. Alec got the distinct impression that even if it was a life and death situation, the genius man would have exactly the same reaction, say exactly the same things and probably have the same roll in the eyes. It was as if everything that was not interesting in the world was beyond his cares. Like lives.

 

“My little brother is the Quartermaster of MI6, one of the most valued national treasures, you have been sent to guard like good bulldogs.” Sherlock said, but his tone took Alec mildly off guard as he had to rethink his previous views. The other man did care. There was genuine fondness in the way that he talked about his brother and moreover, there was pride there and a close look at the chiselled features showed the tightly clenched jaws and the twitch on the right eye that revealed his stress. No. The sniping was the way the other man dealt with pressure, Alec read.

 

“006.” The screen called him back shortly after and though there was no video, both of them turned their attention to the computer screen It was something to focus on, something other than the fate of their friend and sibling to think about. Sherlock's eyes furrowed little. Alec responded cautiously to the female voice. Eve Moneypenny.

 

“007 just called in. They are safe. The safe houses appear to be compromised and he has taken evasive action. He has asked to tell you that you will know where to find him. The asset is also safe.” Eve said with relief in her voice. Alec had always thought that she was a little fond of both James and Q. The way she had broken down after she had shot down 007... well, it was probably a good thing that no one got to see it, really, Alec thought. Even he wished that he hadn't.

 

“Thank god.” Alec breathed and saw the relief flooding Sherlock's eyes too. The man didn't say anything, but he moved, sitting up in his chair, getting ready and Alec could read the impatience. He nodded curtly in acknowledgement.

 

“I'll join them and we will figure out our action and get in contact.” Alec said and disconnected the line before they could request locations and so forth, not that Eve would. She knew that they were off the grid now. They wouldn't be reporting any more details about their locations now. A mole was nothing new in MI6 and it was a constant problem that they were expected to have. But it was something that still left an acidic taste in Alec's mouth.

 

“You have worked with James Bond a lot. You know his habits and thus, you know where he will be.” Sherlock surmised and stood up. Alec smiled and stood up too, downloading a virus onto the computer from the online folder of goodies Q linked for every 00 agent, before he turned the computer off and stood up. Sherlock waited impatiently.

 

“There is only one place he will take Q.” Alec said with a wink and then they were moving. Alec didn't doubt that the young man would be there, safe with the 00 agent, but he did have concerns. Not for their immediate safety, but the rest of the mission. It was only going to get harder now that the other side was on the offensive just as they were. It didn't help that for team Quartermaster, there was no defensive position to take.

 

He also couldn't help himself from grinning like an idiot as that realisation hit. This was going to be _fun!_

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

23:15

16 November 2012

 

James looked at the unconscious form of the Quartermaster, his eyes calculating the rise and fall of his chest. The young man wasn't quite in sleep yet, but he would slip into it soon. Then he would need to move and probably lie next to him to keep him calm for the rest of the sleep that he needed. But for now, James relished in the distance.

 

James threw back the cheap bottle of whisky that had come in the mini bar. He would have preferred a good glass of something, anything better, but it was better than nothing. He also wanted a cigarette, but that too was out of his reach. At least he had been able to contact M, James thought as he let the alcohol burn its way through his body and hoped that it would burn through his memories too. And his conscience. It didn't.

 

There was only two rules. With all the rules that James had to break in the world, whether it be laws of countries, rules of societies or even the stringent protocols of MI6, James had ensured that he kept himself true to at least two rules. To never kill anyone that didn't deserve it and to never force himself on anyone. Even if he had broken the first rule when he had to, killing bystanders in order to keep his asset alive, James had always weighed those lives in his head. But the second rule? James had stuck by.

 

Except.

 

The Quartermaster had been so broken, so deep in shock and when he had almost fallen forward, his desires clear, James hadn't been able to stop himself. His own desires, that had been building from the very first day that he had seen the young man, had been too strong to ignore. He let that feeling overwhelm him and his good sense. Damn.

 

With all the shock and trauma, the other man had sought comfort and James had turned it sexual because that's all he knew how to do. Sex was something James enjoyed for what it was but to him it was also another tool in his arsenal. James had let himself fall back into it, using it to comfort the young man because he desired him too much to let the opportunity go. But the Quartermaster hadn't been in the right mind frame to be able to consent. No. With all his emotions, it would have been the same as James forcing himself onto him.

 

'James'

 

Even then, even with that guilt, James couldn't help but recall the way that the young man had called him, his voice desperate and-

 

The memories had come flooding back whilst James had been cleaning the young man up. It was the way that the Quartermaster had said his name. There had been countless others that had called him with the same desperation, but James remembered it. Because it had been the first time. And because it had been the only time someone had said his name as if he was the centre of their universe, as if he was the most important thing to them. It had been so powerful a feeling that James had never been able to forget it.

 

Then as he had been cleaning away the rapidly cooling remnants of their desires, James felt something starting to click together, but it remained hazy until James got a fresh wet towel and began to clean the young man's face. Then it was obvious. Everything fell into place like the perfect puzzle that had been building for 10 years. And it had.

 

James rubbed his eyes and opened the vodka bottle next. The tiny mini bar offerings wouldn't be enough to get James even pleasantly buzzed, but it was a good distraction. Enough to keep James from storming out of the room, or holding the Quartermaster a little too tight in his arms as the sympathy and horror flooded back with the memories.

 

Rosalind Yates.

 

That's what James remembered the whole incident as. _It wasn't her name now, of course, but it had been. Almost 40 years ago now. She was a legend in MI6, both as the first female 00 agent and as a woman that accomplished more missions than any other had at the time in the short 4 years she worked as an agent. She had been a genius cryptologist and had joined MI6 straight out of Cambridge University after studying linguistics._

 

_Then 4 years into her career, Rosalind Yates did something completely unexpected. She quit MI6, without a new identity and most definitely without being assassinated. No. She married and formed a family. It should have been impossible, if her husband hadn't been Lord Mycroft Holmes of Baskerville and she hadn't become the Lady Rosalind Holmes of Baskerville. And the power that man wielded, well that was a secret only the nobility and truly powerful ever knew._

 

_Hound of Baskerville._

 

_That is what they were referred to as and James had been taught that young, just like other children were taught about the bogeyman under the bed, James learnt about the Hound and the role he played in politics. Anyone that raised a hand against the Queen and the Royal family faced the wrath of the Hound. He would hunt them down and eliminate any and all threats to the Crown. It was their time honoured role to play. The amount of political pull a Holmes was able to pull had been such that James' father had referred to Lord Mycroft Holmes as the British Government._

 

_It had taken James joining MI6 to learn just how real the Hound was and his political pull. Given that MI6 operated largely out of the country and had very little to do with internal politics, they were spared majority of the Holmes influence, but they weren't beyond it. It had only taken James brushing with the name twice before he came to respect it._

 

_Then Rosalind Yates happened._

 

_A spy does never really leave the game. It is not possible for to. The spy game creates enemies. Enemies with long reaches and longer memories. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but it had sent ripples through the espionage community and the British high classes when Lady Rosalind Holmes was kidnapped. With her son. Her youngest son, Oscar Holmes._

 

_James remembered walking into M's office with 4 other A List Agents. They had been the best of the crop and there was pride, egos being stroked, but through it all, there was a grim realisation. James remembered 004's remark even before they went into the office. He had told them to prepare. They were going to kill one of their own today. James had understood immediately. Some of the others didn't._

 

_Lord Mycroft Holmes had been in M's office. Salt and peppered hair, sharp intelligent hazel eyes and dressed like a librarian more than anything else in an immaculate tweed suit and a cane in one hand. He had been standing off to the side in M's office and James remembered thinking that he didn't look very menacing for a Hound of Baskerville. It only took the briefing for James to change his mind._

 

_Rosalind Holmes had been visiting her youngest child at MIT in Massachusetts and had been taken from his flat. The signs indicated that Rosalind had eliminated three of their numbers before she had been subdued. James remembered feeling impressed at that, but more at Mycroft Holmes as M stated coldly and firmly that if Rosalind Holmes could not be extracted then she was to be killed. Mycroft Holmes didn't bat a single eye._

 

_He simply handed over the photograph of his wife and child, both beaten and clearly tortured for the agents to pass around and see. He did not plead with them to bring back his wife and child. He had merely nodded to them and at M. It was probably then that James really understood what it meant to do the job that he had taken. The sacrifice it would take._

 

James broke open the last bottle of vodka and poured it straight down his throat. The alcohol left an unpleasant taste in his mouth but it was better than the memories. Despite it all, James found himself examining those memories carefully because... if there was something in there about the Quartermaster, he wanted to know.

 

James couldn't recall the _actual_ gunfight that happened when they entered the compound in some remote country town. He had gone through far too many extractions like that, both as an A List agent and a 00 agent, not to mention his days at SAS for him to recall that with any detail. But James _could_ remember entering one of the 'cells'.

 

_The dead guard had fallen into the room first. Then James had entered, gun first, fatigues and balaclavas covering his body and face. Even though they was in black army fatigues, they were lightly armed. A List agents were in training to be 00s and 00s rarely had extensive array of firearms or other weapons on themselves. Two guns, extra magazines, a knife and a bullet proof vest had been it._

 

_Upon entering the room, James saw the figure huddled in the corner of the room. James recalled it so clearly because he had been taken aback by the fierce determination in those eyes, even if it was tampered with fear. The others had realised that the figure was most definitely male and had stated they would go ahead. James had let them._

 

_He had walked forward and had reached out a hand. The other man ignored it and continued to glare at James, even if his body was shaking like a leaf and it was clear that he was in a great deal of pain. James had, unable to stop himself, knelt on the ground before the figure and taken off the balaclava covering his face. He reached out the hand again and the figure had seemed surprised._

 

_“My name is James. James Bond.” James had said, adding a smirk and a wink as he said so, trying to put the figure at ease. It seemed to have worked. The other man surged forward and James found himself with an armful of a dirty, bleeding young man. James' trained instincts rebelled at the thought of anyone being so close when he was armed, but he fought it down and instead wrapped his arms around the other man, turning them so that he could watch the door way._

 

_“James?” The young man had questioned, called, as if it was the first word he had spoken in a long time. Just 84 hours though, James had thought._

 

_“Jamesjamesjamesjames” The man repeated with a broken voice and James felt it almost floor him. It was filled with so much need, so much desperation and damned hope, it felt as if to the other man, James was the centre of the universe, the most important thing in the world. James let himself stroke the figures' back with a soft hand as the other man clamoured to be closer._

 

_“Its okay Oscar. I'm going to get you out of here. You're okay now.” James had told him, but the man didn't seem to listen, just quivering and pawing at James' bulletproof vest with a frustrated whine. It had taken him a moment, but James' instincts told him what to do. He took the vest off, undoing the straps by the sides and pulling it off, over his head and as if it had been just what the young man needed, he had sighed in relief and burrowed in closer until his ear was resting just above James' chest. Then he stilled._

 

_“James.” The voice called again and it had been so full of relief and longing and desire that James had swallowed hard to compose himself. He put the vest over Oscar Holmes' dirty hair and tightened the straps on the Velcro until his torso was carefully covered. He had whined, making a broken noise when James had pulled his head from his chest, tensing, but the moment his head was against James' chest again, Oscar had relaxed._

 

_James used one arm to cradle the far too thin body against his and the other to hold the Glock 22 that still felt more familiar than the Walther PPK they had issued him. The young man did not stir at all but did loop his arms around James' neck to hold on. James had encouraged him to wrap his long legs around James' waist and the young man complied, but he did not seem to care about anything else but the heartbeat._

 

_Carrying the young man like that, James had fought his way out of the compound, into where the backup had been waiting. He doesn't remember much after that, except for the broken cry the young man had given when James had pulled the young man away from his hold to put him in the med evac. The young man had gone so hysterical that they had to sedate him. James remembered Rosalind Holmes watching him with calculating eyes even with her injuries._

 

The whole thing had been just forty minutes at best. From start to finish. But it had been the mission that gave him a push in getting to his 00 status. It had also been the mission that taught James exactly what he was in for when he joined MI6 to be a 00 agent. It had also left him with haunting visions of hazel eyes and the broken voice calling his name.

 

'James?'

 

Just like the Quartermaster had done. Just like _his_ Quartermaster had done. James felt the emotion rise far quicker and harsher than he had been prepared for. Since when? James asked himself. Since when had the Quartermaster been his? _Since he trusted you with his life,_ the voice in his head said. Sharp as always. James ignored it.

 

“-ames...”

 

The Quartermaster's voice put a stop to the drinking and he thoughts. James moved instinctively towards the bed and pulled the covers back, slipping in. He pulled the young man over his body till his head was resting over James' chest and let himself wrap his arms around the thin shoulders and let their legs tangle. When the Quartermaster relaxed in his hold, James tried not to think about just how _right_ the Quartermaster's heat and weight felt. He just couldn't.

 

He didn't _dare._

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you. 
> 
> The support I have been receiving has been nothing short of overwhelming and it is absolutely wonderful! Um... So... There was the backstory. Was it what you expected? Was it too tame? Was it too... cliched? Tell me! lol 
> 
> I do apologise for the angst (it's kinda thing I do... I can't help it) and I hope that the next few chapters will bring a little more fluff and cute moments. I can't promise humour. I'm just not funny enough T__T 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and I hope you will continue to read! (I know I know, I'm a needy, insecure idiot).


	12. Twelveth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock finds himself confused about emotions (nothing new there), Alec finds that he may know James a little too well and in which Q finds himself in a compromising position and Mycroft is terrified of their Mother dearest. 
> 
> Or... in which Sherlock misses John, Alec is far too playful for his own good and Q blushes more than a high school girl on her first date... and John threatens to break out of a hospital. All in a days work right?

23:56

16 November 2012

 

The anticipation was almost too much. Sherlock could tell that Alec was just as eager, if not desperate to reach wherever their location was by the constant tapping of his foot and the way he was issuing curt directions to the taxi driver. They had abandoned the vehicle they had taken to the internet cafe and the spy had also acquired new phones for them as well as few other gadgets he said that Oz would be able to modify on the fly for their needs.

 

Sherlock was still reeling from the fact that his little brother, the one he had cuddled to sleep after nightmares and had read to, had climbed what had to be a very political ladder to be the Head of the Q Branch. But then, Oscar had always been more like Mycroft than Sherlock, though he was also like neither of them in many ways. Sherlock felt an odd warmth in his stomach when he thought of what his brother achieved and filed away the information. He would have to ask John later to identify what that particular feeling was. John would know. He always knew.

 

Sherlock ignored the pang, a sharp, almost painful feeling that seemed to stab him in the heart when he thought of John and wondered what that was too. He wished that it was John, not Alec, riding in the taxi with him and that John was there to tell him the strange emotions he was feeling. To put names on them for Sherlock to work with. He also wanted John to ask those silly questions and see that admiring gleam when he deduced something. He even wanted to see that silly eye roll he did when he thought Sherlock had said something outrageous.

 

Yet, without John, Sherlock's mind almost felt sluggish. The puzzle of the whole Moriarty situation and his organisation was something that was constantly buzzing in his mind and there was something... off, odd. Something that Sherlock knew, he would be able to put his finger on, if John was there. To ask one of those silly, yet brilliant questions that would make all the pieces fall into place in Sherlock's mind, to calm the beast and make it focus in ways that only John could.

 

But John wasn't here. No, instead he had a spy that presented a puzzle of his own. Sherlock could read his training, his life before and after, but there were aspects to the spy that refused to be deduced. Like, what were his motivations? What had led him down this path of service to MI6 and... how was it that Sherlock could not read his guile and his thoughts like he could with every other person?

 

Sherlock should have been able to read Oscar's importance from the two spies alone, but he hadn't been able to. He had noticed the deception, but that was as far as it went. Both James Bond and Alec Trevelyan were unlike any other person Sherlock had come across and it was frankly fascinating. He wondered absent-mindedly if John would find them fascinating too. He ignored the irrational flare of something like anger when he thought about that.

 

Still, Sherlock wanted to see Oscar. He knew what that need was and what that feeling was. Mycroft and Mother said that it was worry. It was concern, born of love and Sherlock believed their judgement. He was worried for Oscar and he was concerned. That concern apparently brought out frustration and sheer _need_ to see for himself that Oz was alright.

 

Sherlock frowned when he realised that the taxi was taking one of the main streets of London, down Buckingham Palace Road. Surely the hotel that James Bond would have chosen would be in the back streets somewhere, out of the view of the prying eyes and – ah.

 

The initial deduction Sherlock had made had been correct. James had taken his brother to a hotel than to risk yet another safe house. If one was compromised, it was very likely that they were _all_ compromised. It also meant that Moriarty's organisation knew the players now and that meant their own houses were also likely to be compromised. Ergo, hotel. Unconnected to either of them and there were plenty of hotels that did not require an address or a name to purchase a night. Cash took care of all that.

 

But of course, Sherlock thought as they pulled up the driveway of one of the most exclusive hotels in London. The same privacy and anonymity could also be found in the most expensive hotels in plain view, in the busiest areas of London. Like Hotel 41 on Buckingham Palace Road. With their strict rules about client's privacy, the hotel had refused to have any CCTV cameras placed around the hotel and there were also no CCTV within the hotel. Their security was covered by personnel and they were well known for their discretion.

 

Alec left the taxi first, paying the cab with just enough of a tip not to leave him disgruntled, but also not excessive enough to leave a lasting memory. Alec didn't offer Sherlock a hand, but as soon as Sherlock was out of the taxi, he did wrap his arm around Sherlock's waist and leaned in close with a chuckle as if they had been laughing and carrying on in the taxi. Sherlock put on a smile and followed the lead.

 

“Come on darling, you're going to _love_ this place.” Alec said with a lilting tone of seduction and Sherlock smiled accordingly. Again, Sherlock found himself rather impressed. Alec was clearly not attracted to him, least of all because Alec was predominantly straight and also because on the occasion that he did take a man to bed, they were more likely to look like James Bond than Sherlock or Oscar. But the way his eyes filled with heat and his face filled with desire, Sherlock almost believed that it was real. Anyone else would think it real.

 

They smiled and laughed and whispered to each other as they walked through the heavy oak and glass doors to the hotel, all the way through the black and white tiled corridors, to the reception area. Alec disentangled himself from Sherlock and walked up to the reception with a swagger and easy smile. Sherlock sat himself down on one of the lounges and pretended to relax as Alec sweet talked the receptions staff and got them a room.

 

Sherlock noted with a critical eye that the staff were extremely attentive and eager to please. He also noticed that the reception ladies seemed to make the connection that Alec had clearly intended. Two men without suitcases or briefcases. It was hard to pretend to be businessmen or tourists. Ergo, homosexual men having a dalliance, away from the prying eyes of society. The ladies appeared to pass no judgement as they handed the key card over to Alec with a wink. Alec returned it and came to the lounge where Sherlock was sitting and flopped himself down onto Sherlock's lap.

 

“I got us the room we were in last time. Remember that night?” Alec said with a chuckle as he nuzzled Sherlock's neck, his voice loud enough to be heard, but clearly meant to be private. Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes as if he was feeling pleasure from Alec's roaming hands and lips and laid a hand on the small of his back.

 

“Oh I do. Why don't we go for a repeat performance?” Sherlock asked in a sultry tone and watched Alec's eyes widen just a little as if he was surprised that Sherlock was reciprocating his innuendos, but he stood up quickly and pulled Sherlock to his feet and into his embrace. The ladies at reception giggled as they half stumbled and half carried each other to the elevators and got in.

 

As soon as they were in the elevator, Alec pulled away from Sherlock and the heat and the desire was gone as if it had never been there. Alec looked at Sherlock with a small apologetic smile, but Sherlock didn't return it and let the mask he had been holding onto drop. Alec used the key card to press number 2 and Sherlock frowned. The best rooms were hardly near the ground floor and James Bond seemed like to be the kind of man that wouldn't settle for anything but the best. But it did make security sense. The room was likely to be near a fire escape, Sherlock deduced. That would give the spy two points of entry and exit, the fire escape obviously and the window if necessary. Not bad.

 

Alec led Sherlock to room 214 and entered without much ceremony and swept the room out of pure professional instinct before he locked the door and closed the curtains. Sherlock stood the door, waiting. It was clear that Oz and James wasn't in the room. Sherlock briefly wondered if they were going to be settling and waiting, when Alec approached a door next to the windows. Ah.

 

Adjoining Rooms.

 

It took Alec less than a minute to pick the elaborate lock between the two rooms, but he didn't open the door. Instead, he took a deep breath and conducted what sounded like a very complex and complicated knock of varying rhythm, strength, accentuated with pauses. He waited for a moment after that to open the door and Sherlock wasn't surprised to find Alec's body tensing as he went through the door. Sherlock followed after him and bumped into his back.

 

For a brief second, Sherlock thought that they had the wrong room. There had been no hints in the message James had passed on about the room or the hotel and the spy could have gotten it wrong, but Alec didn't go for his weapon and there was no move to push Sherlock back into the safety of the other room. He just appeared to be frozen. Curious, Sherlock ducked around Alec's body and he too felt frozen for a moment.

 

For one, there was a gun pointed at them. The green light from the hand print reader on the Walther blinked at him as Sherlock's mind took in the scene and tried to process it.

 

James Bond was holding the gun, whilst he was inclined in the bed. The gun was unwavering and that was likely enough to put the tension in the spy's body, but it wasn't what held both of their attentions.

 

James Bond was also holding a naked man to himself, cradling the far too thin shoulder with his left arm and his hand was still moving and caressing the thin but muscled arm. A head covered in brown curls rested on Bond's naked and very muscular chest, eyes firmly closed and face relaxed in a state of deep sleep. Bond moved casually to put the gun down next to the pair of black rimmed glasses on the bedside table and raised a finger to his lips.

 

“He needs to rest.” Bond said in a whisper barely loud enough to be heard. Sherlock opened his mouth, thought better of it and closed the door behind him and locked it. Alec moved to sit in one of the couches near the bed and Sherlock followed till he was sitting on the opposite side, his eyes on the sleeping man the whole time.

 

A few questions flew around in his head but they were all answered the moment his brain came up with them. Oz wasn't the sort to take naps, but following the incident at the abandoned warehouse and the safe house, he was likely to be exhausted and likely to have gone through some sort of shock. That was no doubt the reason he was out like a light and given the situation, he would have suffered nightmares, ergo, the steady heartbeat he trusted. But... his brother was naked under the sheets. That, Sherlock wanted to question.

 

“I assume my brother is there of his own accord?” Sherlock found himself asking even as he frowned at his own question. Of course. Oz would not let anyone touch him if he did not want it or was not comfortable with it. Sherlock didn't, however, anticipate the flash of guilt that went through James Bond's eyes. He recognised the emotion. He had seen it a thousand times flashing across the eyes of criminals. The question was then, why the guilt?

 

The sharp tang scent of sex was unmistakable. Oz wasn't the type to indulge in sex to relax or for fun, as the agent seemed to be. So, the question remained. Why the guilt? Sherlock felt his eyes narrow even as the protective instinct he had become familiar with when it came to Oscar or John, rose and he fought it down.

 

“He was in shock.” James said as the only explanation and his raised eyebrow dared Sherlock to question it. He didn't. Not yet. There was a lot more information Sherlock required before he could ask that particular question. Instead, he turned to look at Alec and saw the narrowed eyes and the thoughtful look pass through him before he visibly shrugged it off and replaced it with a light glint.

 

“Wow JB, the-”

 

“Shut up Alec.” James cut him off with scowl and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He supposed he was rather impressed that the agents would go such lengths to protect his brother's secret, but the metaphorical cat was well out of the bag. Besides, Sherlock wasn't comfortable with the way that Alec was looking at- no. Alec _wasn't_ looking at Oz. His eyes, all that admiration and slight hint of heat wasn't aimed at Oz. Sherlock felt his eyebrows rise.

 

“He already knows. He was there when I was reporting to M.” Alec said wit a little sheepish look and a sigh and James narrowed his eyes, a hint of protective instinct and annoyance colouring them. Sherlock ignored that in favour of the way the two men were looking at each other, the casual familiarity and the deductions flew quickly.

 

“The Quartermaster huh? M is not going to be pleased.” Alec said and there was some true concern in that teasing voice. James shrugged but even with that movement, he was careful not to dislodge the genius asleep on his chest and his arm wrapped a little tighter around the younger man's shoulders. His free hand also moved to caress the curls as if he was unaware of his movements. Sherlock had a feeling it was subconscious.

 

“We have three more facilities to hit in London and the safe houses are compromised. We have a leak and MI6 is going to need her Quartermaster back soon. I think it's time we raise the stakes.” James said instead of rising to the bait Alec had obviously placed. Even with the naked man in his arms, James seemed perfectly confident and not in the least embarrassed. Sherlock found that fascinating.

 

Sherlock had questions. He wanted to ask the agent what he was going to do with Oscar. Was he going to walk away from what he likely did to all his conquests, now that he had a taste of Oscar? It was clear that James Bond's taste ran towards beautiful and dangerous women rather than men. Was that going to hurt Oscar in the ways that he had been hurt before? Sherlock questioned, but he didn't ask because he had a feeling that even James Bond had no answer. So instead of raising questions, he allowed the two agents to focus on discussing their strategies and the likely mole within their organisation whilst he let the problem of Moriarty's organisation percolate in his mind.

 

The missing piece, the piece that kept it all from clicking together was bothering Sherlock still. Sherlock found himself standing up and pacing as the two agents talked. He just needed one spark. The right question to be asked.

 

John. Sherlock thought. He needed John.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

10:00

18 November 2012

 

“Sir, you cannot leave yet. You are still undergoing-” The nurse's stern voice made Mycroft hurry his steps as he walked along the extensive corridors of the private hospital the Holmes family ran for their friends and family. The facility was secure and the staff loyal. Exactly the reason why they were fighting so hard to keep one stubborn army doctor within its walls.

 

Mycroft paused at the door way to the private family only suite he had placed John in. The hospital had understood the meaning behind the move and had ensured that John received every care and attention that he deserved. Mycroft's appearance at the doorway went completely unnoticed by both the nurse and John himself. Mycroft wasn't surprised.

 

John was looking a little better than when he had brought him along to the hospital. The drug enforced sleep and the drips restoring his nutrients had clearly allowed the doctor's previously healthy body to recover quickly. His face was still far too pale and he was still painfully thin compared to his previous weight, but there was no mistaking that John was now almost fit enough to fight his way out of the hospital if necessary. There was also no doubting just how clearly he understood his own charts.

 

“I can't stay here. I don't want to stay here and I know that I'm well enough to be discharged. You cannot hold me here against my will!” John shouted, his voice angry and hoarse and Mycroft felt his heart go out to the man again. Damn Sherlock, Mycroft thought even as his mind went through the calculations. He cleared his throat as he made his decisions.

 

“No of course not Doctor Watson. Nurse Winters was never suggesting that. She was merely concerned about your welfare, despite your speedy recovery.” Mycroft said in his best placating tone and watched as John's eyes looked at him and for a moment, it wavered as he saw a familiar hint of someone else in Mycroft. He then watched as the pain filled the doctor's eyes again and all the fire went out from him as if he had been shaken out of it all. Mycroft resisted the sigh and gave a curt look to the nurse.

 

“Of course not sir. I will prepare the discharge papers immediately.” The nurse said to Mycroft before she exited the room and Mycroft walked further into the room. John sank down into one of the many lounge chairs and sofas strewn throughout the room. Mycroft remained standing, Andrea just behind him.

 

“John, I can have a car ready to take you anywhere you wish to go. If you wish, the information of your whereabouts will not be disclosed even to me.” Mycroft said, hoping that the army doctor would take the offer. He didn't. He shook his head tiredly and stood up, putting all of his weight on his left leg. The emotional stress has clearly brought back the psychosomatic pain, Mycroft noted with some disdain. Not good.

 

“I just... I just want to go home.” John said and Mycroft had to nod. He signalled Andrea and from the tapping of her blackberry keys, she was organising the driver and the car as they had been speaking. Mycroft looked at John one more time before the decision finalised in his mind.

 

He had always thought that John Watson would be the makings of his brother. He had been right. John Watson completed Sherlock as a person. He made Sherlock see and deal with emotions in ways that no one else had been able to. He also made sure that he pulled himself into the role of a moral compass for the genius' mind and it had allowed Sherlock to take steps along the road to becoming a better man, something that Mycroft had to admit he was rather looking forward to seeing the end of.

 

John Watson had to remain with Sherlock, Mycroft decided. Whether or not it was the best decision to make, he could not be certain of. But Sherlock could not be at his best without the doctor and the doctor certainly could not survive now without Sherlock. Sherlock needed to bring his best game if he was going to finish this ridiculous game of his and the doctor certainly could not be left behind for that. Oh no. It was time for Mycroft to step his toes into their game too. He had quite enough of being on the sidelines.

 

“Doctor Watson, I wish you all the best and I do hope you will take care of yourself a little better.” Mycroft said as a parting line and just as the nurse bustled back into the room, he took his leave. Andrea followed behind him and they exited the room together. As they made their way down the corridor again towards the driveway, Mycroft paused and looked at Andrea.

 

“Perhaps we should stay and have your back checked. It would be awfully inconvenient for you to suffer any scars.” Mycroft said. He had escaped the whole incident with minor grazes but Andrea had suffered several deep cuts and they had removed no less than four shards of glass from her back. Andrea merely smiled and shook her head.

 

“It has been taken care of sir. Should I email Oscar and inform him of Doctor Watson's condition?” Andrea asked, only the warmth in her voice acknowledging his concern. Its how their relationship worked. Mycroft didn't thank her for protecting him because that would be an insult to her dedication and her belief about the role she played. She also did not thank him for the concern because that was her due for risking her life to protect his. Instead, she read his mind and anticipated his next moves.

 

“Yes. Tell my brothers of John's whereabouts and increase the protection detail on the good doctor. Also, I think it might be a good time for the twins to visit their grandmother in Switzerland.” Mycroft said and Andrea merely nodded as she began to organise the trip even as she crowded him as they entered the car. They had precious little time until Rosalind Holmes returned home from her trip. There was no doubt in Mycroft's mind that their mother knew of the incidents that had been occurring her absence and the wrath that would rain down when she returned sent a flock of butterflies through Mycroft's stomach.

 

No. everything had to be resolved before she returned and decided to wield the power of the Hound of Baskerville in the way only a former spy could.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

10:00

18 November 2012

 

“So... I'm guessing I should add condoms to the-”

 

“I would not continue that sentence if you don't want to spend the next eight months in the deserts of Africa, 006.” Q interrupted in his usual calm, commanding, Quartermaster voice. Alec froze mid-movement as he was putting on James' winter coat to leave the hotel room. They were in dire need of changes of clothes and more electronics, as well as, according to the two agents, good alcohol. Alec had designated himself the shopper and James had allowed it. Q didn't let himself dwell on that too much.

 

“Apologies sir.” Alec said with a serious look on his face but a glint of playfulness in his eyes before he did a dramatic wave and exited the room. Q rolled his eyes and focused back on his computer.

 

Sherlock was laid out on the bed, his eyes closed as if he was sleeping, but by the rapid eye movements, Q knew that he was thinking. James was seated at the table, tinkering, for the lack of a better word. Q hadn't had a great deal of time to prepare for their little 'mission' and as such, had left behind much of the toys that he would have liked to utilise. For one, now that they had been burnt by the other sides' surveillance, Q wanted to have a few devices on hand to detect any GPS signals or otherwise.

 

Since he didn't have the ones he issued to the agents on his person and a large percentage of their good technology has been abandoned with their locations and identities becoming compromised, Q had asked James to build a few basic ones using the electronics Alec had bought and what was available in the hotel room. Q had called up the simplified designs made available to field agents and James had gotten to work straight away without a word of complaint.

 

Q watched 007 work from the corner of his eyes and tried not to dwell on the fact that he most likely had ruined their working relationship. Their thing in the office had been something of characteristic of James Bond and Q had taken advantage of that to get what he needed and to pretend that he was unaffected by it. But the night before? That was different. Q had unwittingly divulged how much James Bond meant to him and he was in no way dumb enough to hope that the agent didn't notice. Of course he did.

 

007 hadn't changed at all in his treatment of Q thus far, but Q felt a little awkward and there was a sharp pang of the loss he knew was coming. 007 would remain professional, as he always did during the missions to accomplish it, but Q had a feeling that after it was all over and done with, there would be no more flirty banters. After all, Bond would know that Q's desires were more than a fling and James Bond most definitely did not to relationships. Not that Q had ever wished for a relationship. Oh God, he was acting like a love sick teenager, Q thought with disgust.

 

Even as he thought that though, Q couldn't help but remember the way he had woken up. For the first time in years and years, Q had felt absolutely safe. He had strong arms wrapped around him and there was a warm, steady chest underneath his head. He heard the rhythmic heartbeat and it had relaxed him for a moment before the memories flooded back. Then Q had been out of the warm bed, ripping himself from those arms as he ran to the bathroom.

 

His stomach had heaved as he remembered the trigger pull, the impact of blood spraying and the realities of having taken a man's life with his own hands. Q had heaved and heaved the empty contents of his stomach until his mouth was sour with the taste of acid and he realised there was a warm chest pressed against his naked back. He had let those warm arms help him up and keep him steady as he washed his face and brushed his teeth. He had taken the glass of water offered and drank it before those strong hands pushed him towards the shower.

 

007 had been nothing but absolutely tender as he helped Q wash the cold sweat off his body and warm up the frozen hands ands and feet. His touches had been careful and attentive without being sexual and even though Q's mind told him that James was only taking care of him because he was an 'asset' that required protection, Q let himself take comfort in those touches and the tenderness.

 

When Q had been dry and dressed, 007 had asked him if he was okay and handed him a cup of perfect Earl Grey, doctored just in the way that Q liked, and told him that Sherlock and Alec were next door. He had also ensured that Q felt calm enough and relaxed enough for it, before he allowed them into the room.

 

The jokes and the light atmosphere had happened almost immediately with the insertion of Alec into the room and as much as Q hated being the butt of a joke, he had to admit that it helped him relax and to focus on the work at hand rather than the things that had already happened. But still, Q was glad that Alec was going shopping. He needed 006 out of his hair for a little while.

 

With that in mind, Q turned his attention back to the complicated maps of communications. He had two tablets and the two TVs from the hotel room linked to the system as an impromptu command centre and even with the extra screens, Q had to admit that it would be easier to work the whole mess out if he was back in the Q Branch and his own Control Centre. Still, he was starting to see the logic in the particular communication clusters.

 

Terrorist organisations often worked in cells. More often than not, cells did not know about the existence of the other cells or what their task was. They were only aware of their own task and there was no big picture for them. However, each cell usually had one person they all communicated with or knew of. The person that held the plan. It was usually how Q tracked down the cells and the leaders to dismantle them. Whilst there was no guarantee that Moriarty's organisation was the same, the communication maps were familiar.

 

Even as he looked at the maps he had created, Q realised that there was something odd. There was something holding the flow of his logic back and for the life of him, he couldn't work it out. As the Quartermaster, it was Q's job to see the big picture before he focused on the details. He would have to know what the mission would be and how it fits in the overall scheme of things before he can decide on the size of explosives that could be used, or the way a particular piece of intel could be utilised. So, Q was used to being able to see he overall picture. Except, with this situation, it felt like the big picture he was seeing was a mismatched puzzle. An unfinished puzzle.

 

Q wondered if that was what was frustrating Sherlock. His brother had been quiet with occasional outbursts of annoyance and frustration and Q had a feeling that Sherlock too was seeing the mismatched puzzle that he was seeing. No doubt Sherlock's version would be more complex and detailed, but the essential wrongness would be there, Q thought. He sighed and closed the map.

 

His mind needed the time to subconsciously work on the problem. He would need to figure out how to disentangle the lines of communication by hand since he didn't have the processing power of a super computer at his disposal. That required more focus than what he was capable of producing in that moment.

 

Instead, Q turned his attention to the official and unofficial communications his email program gathered from hundreds of anonymous email accounts he had set up. 486, the number at the top read. Q sighed as he did a quick scroll down, just as a hot cup of Earl Grey made its way to the table. Q looked up quickly, with surprise and met James' amused icy blue eyes.

 

“You need to eat and drink more if you aren't going to sleep.” 007 said as he indicated the ham and cheese croissant he had laid down next to the tea. It was fast becoming a habit for James to feed him, Q thought as he nodded and took the croissant in one hand whilst he tapped on the email to open it.

 

Behind him, Q could hear James laying the food out for Sherlock and attempting to rouse him. Q let those noises become fade into the background as he read the email. It was from Bishop and Spider, two of the best hackers Q had. They had completed an audit of the computer systems and the firewalls and had been able to trace the source of the hacking that had been continuing for good three weeks, to a location in London. They hadn't been able to track it to an address but knew that it was coming from central London and they were concerned that it could be linked to hints of domestic terrorism that had been on their radar for some time.

 

Q flagged the information for the attention of M and let it slide as he scrolled down further to the email from Andromeda. Q opened it and read through it quickly, once, twice and for the third time before he closed his eyes and put the croissant down. His mouth felt dry and he gulped at the hot tea until he felt like he could actually talk. Damn, he thought. Things were going south for them quickly and he couldn't see a solution presenting itself in any speedy manner. It was frustrating at best.

 

Q pushed away from the desk and turned his chair around until he was looking at the prone form of his brother. The steaming cup of tea was on the bedside table and James had returned to his device. With Q's movement, 007 looked up, his eyes filled with concern and Q wondered if the concern was for him as a person or as an asset. Q promptly told his stupid mind to shut up as he focused back on his brother.

 

Despite the knowledge he had of his brother's life, Q had never been sure of whether Sherlock himself knew or understood his attachments to the doctor. Sherlock had taken to him from the very beginning, had been fascinated by the seemingly innocuous doctor with infallible steady trigger pull, a sharp brilliant medical mind and the ability to be so mundane and yet so brilliant, if not to anyone else, than at least to Sherlock. Q had a feeling that his brother knew that John was important, just not why.

 

Q stood up from the chair and moved to the bed until he was sitting down on the bed. James had tried to talk to Sherlock and even shake his shoulder to stir him, but that usually didn't work with Sherlock. When he was in his mind palace, Sherlock's senses would pick up the information and store it, but he would not examine those for hours, until he was ready to come out of his own mind. Q didn't have that time.

 

Instead, Q moved until he was half laying on the bed, his head resting on Sherlock's chest and he listened to the slow, steady heartbeat. The sound was as familiar as his own breathing and he was comforted by the noise as always. Sherlock's hand moved to card through Q's hair almost immediately and with the movement, Sherlock's eyes opened and he looked down at Q. As he had always down when Q needed him.

 

“What's wrong?” Sherlock asked, his voice dry with disuse for hours. Q looked at him and sat up and Sherlock followed his movement until he too was sitting up, leaning against the bed frame.

 

“It's John.” Q said and watched the flash of panic go through Sherlock's brain. He knew that Sherlock wanted to ask questions and would have fired them off if it had been anyone else. As it was, he trusted Q to tell him without the questions being asked.

 

“Your flat was targeted. Mycroft was there at the time but Andrea was there so he's fine. But John suffered some... complications from his grief and-”

 

“Mycroft took him to St. Andrews. But he wouldn't stay there. He would have left as he was physically able.” Sherlock said as he read the rest of the information from Q's eyes and his own deductions. Q nodded and Sherlock nodded curtly to himself as he took a deep breath. Q could see that there was a need in his brother to move, to go to where John would be, but reality was also there too.

 

They needed to wait for Alec. They needed to pack up and be prepared. It was very likely that they were watching John. Had been from the beginning. If they were following John, they could very well come under fire the moment they reveal themselves. It was a risky move. But it was a necessary one, Q thought. Sherlock needed John. Just like Q needed his computers and technology to be at his best. Sherlock scowled.

 

“221B. We need to go to 221B.” Sherlock said and Q nodded as he stood up from the bed. Sherlock remained where he was for a moment before he began to pace again, his brain kicking into new gear with the new information. Perhaps that was the piece they needed, Q thought, but without much hope as he returned to the desk and ignored the questioning look from James Bond. There would be time for tell all stories later and if Q had to do some explaining, he much preferred to do it once. When Alec returned.

 

It was going to be a long, long day.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright ladies (and gents?). Apologies for the late update. I had work and 12 hour shifts do not make for friendly writing time. Or brains to write with. In fact, getting assaulted does not help that either. Seriously... why is it that women go wilder than the men half of the time? And why does being called to the boss's office makes me feel like I'm in high school going to the Principle's office rather than a grown up adult?!? 
> 
> Um... anyway, personal issues aside, here is the next chapter. It is longer than usual... and thank you for your patience and continuing support! 
> 
> The story is winding up to a finale soon (at least where I am up to writing) and so... here is the question. For my next fic, should I: 
> 
> a. Continue with Bondlock Verse - dealing with the aftermath of the Oldest Dance OR  
> b. Write a story in which 007 goes undercover to recruit Q (still Bondlock because I cannot imagine Q NOT being a Holmes) OR  
> c. Write a fic with a supernatural theme in which vampires and werewolves may be involved? 
> 
> Granted... they will all get written some time but I figured since you guys are fantastic, I should put it out there and see which ones would be the most popular? XD Let me know and I will get it underway to be started right after the current one is finished! (oh... btw... they are all gonna be long. Because if you haven't noticed already? Brevity is NOT something I am capable of) 
> 
> Cheers!


	13. Thirteenth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John realises the crippling effects of loss, Lestrade finds himself out of his depth and James and Sherlock learns something akin to remorse - except of course he would need John to interpret it for him. Of course. 
> 
> Or... in which James wonders what calling Q 'sir' in the bedroom will do, Lestrade and John get kidnapped and Alec may find himself buried in a deep, deep hole. 
> 
> Enjoy~ and don't forget to vote! (see end notes)

1300

18 November 2012

 

“Are you sure sir? I can drop you-”

 

“This is fine. Thank you.” John said before the driver could finish. He didn't want to smell the leather seats and the subtle air freshener. He wanted to be in the cold, crisp, winter air of London streets. He wanted to feel something other than the pain. John watched the car drive away before he began to walk, limping a little to compensate for the pain in his leg. He knew it wasn't real, but the pain was harsh and biting as the winter air. It felt... almost _good_ compared to the pain in-

 

Loss always felt bitter. It always had and he had a feeling he should get used to the bitter taste it left in his mouth now. He had felt it when his parents had passed away. He had felt it colouring everything in his world when Mary left. He had felt it perpetually whilst he was in Afghanistan, losing one patient after another, one team member after another. Yet, it always took him by surprise. It always hit him like a sucker punch to the stomach.

 

He ought to know how to deal with loss. He ought to be used to it. He wasn't. His therapist would tell him to focus on the positives, but for the life of him, John wasn't sure if there were any positives to focus on. He couldn't get rid of the numb feeling inside, or the emptiness and God.

 

It _hurt_.

 

He was a realist. He knew that life sucked sometimes, but it also was good at times and John had relied on the good to outweigh the bad and put everything into balance. But it didn't. It _couldn't_. Not this time. This time, it felt like there could be no more good. It felt like he had held everything he had ever wanted, ever needed in his life in his arms, for those precious moments but it was gone now.

 

It _hurt_.

 

John wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, tell the world just how _unfair_ it all was, but he knew it wouldn't do anyone any good. It wouldn't bring _him_ back. Nothing could. That reality, knowing that he was never going to- Oh God. John took a deep breath. The sharp winter air burned through his lungs and he relished in that pain. It felt like everything hurt. Every little bone in his body ached with loss, but nothing hurt as much as the pain, the emptiness at the centre of his being.

 

Of course, John thought. Of course this would happen just when he thought he had worked all of it out. That _they_ had worked it all out. He had finally settled with the thought that he held everything in his arms and he had just relaxed into that reality. Of _course_ it had to happen just now.

 

_He_ had been right there in John's arms. _He_ had been right there, holding John in _his_ arms and John had felt that amazing contentment people talk about, that relief of knowing that there is someone waiting for you at home. That there is someone that would _care_ if he was to be gone. John had never stopped to consider that he would be the one left behind. Why didn't he? He was always the one to be left behind. He should have known better.

 

The tears started up again, unbidden, but not unexpected. Damn. John had thought that he had run out of those, that his body was past producing any more damned _tears_ because it felt such like a small gesture, a gesture that didn't begin to cover the deep seated pain. But once the tears started, John felt his throat close up and he couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow past the pain and the anguish. It all burnt. And it _hurt_. God it _hurt_ so, so bad.

 

Still, John walked. He ignored the pain his leg, the pain in his shoulder, the pain his heart and the lump in his throat. He wanted to go home. He _needed_ to go home. To the one place he could remember the good things still. To the one place that he could drown out the sorrow because he could drown himself in the memories instead.

 

Home. He could go and remember the laughter, the smiles, the winking pale green, almost grey eyes that would fill up with that curiosity, insatiable desire and the looks of fondness and affection that _he_ didn't know how to express. Missing _him_ , missing all of that, was a physical pain, like a knife being stabbed into his very heart. John wiped the tears away the best he could as he continued to walk. Passerbys probably stared, but he didn't notice.

 

The streets though. Even the streets were haunted with memories. Memories of them running through it together, chasing or being chased, laughing all the way. _The games afoot John!_ _He_ would say. John could almost hear that voice in the winter winds, that deep baritone, talking always a little too fast, a little too excitedly for the grim topic of discussion, but it isn't real. Nothing was real. Not any more.

 

The pain of knowing that he was not going to be able to hear that voice again, not see those pale green eyes winking at him again, or feel the kisses that would rain down on his face, or the artistic thin fingers playing out a rhythm of their own on his body. Never again. He was never going to have it again.

 

And John hadn't been there.

 

He hadn't been there to say goodbye, to hold those thin hands again, to feel the surprisingly muscular body in his arms, or to kiss those always a little chapped lips again. He hadn't been there. He had been too far away, too distracted, too- John stopped himself. He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to remember that. He didn't want to remember the way his stomach fell when he saw the ambulance, the dark unshed tears in Lestrade's eyes. He didn't want to remember the way the Detective Inspector offered his apologies because they meant nothing, even if it was the best that he could offer.

 

John turned the corner, onto Baker Street and stopped. Unable to move forward because-

 

The emotional pain became physical. John gasped as he grasped at his heart. It felt as if his heart was being torn to a thousand pieces as he leant against the wall. The cold bricks didn't even feel cold through the emptiness and the numbing pain that took over. Even through the tears, his eyes focused on the pavement. The stain. The dark, angry red stain of b- _his –_ Oh God – _his_ blood was-

 

No. Oh God.

 

John gasped for breath but the winter air didn't seem to enter his lungs. Or did it? He gasped again. And again. And again. But it felt like there was no oxygen, there was no air to breathe. He felt hands. Rough hands that weren't _his_. The hands gripped him and steadied him even as John raised his blurry eyes and saw the lights through the black spots forming.

 

Red and blue.

 

Flashing lights of red and blue. Just like the ones that had been there when he had come home. He saw the tapes, the white and dark blue ones stretched out, across the street. Not where-

 

They weren't across where John was standing, but further up, where their home had been. _Their_ home that was no longer. He wouldn't be able to walk up those stairs any more to hear the gleeful shouts, or the sullen replies, or frustrated strokes on the violin. He wouldn't be able to walk into the living room and see _him_ stretched out on the sofa in that ridiculous dressing gown. There would be no more questions of, 'did you get the tea?' being asked as he lugged the grocery up the steps.

 

John felt hands, another pair of them handing him a bag. A brown paper bag that they held to his mouth and John breathed. He struggled for every breath as the black spots became bigger than the shapes he could make out. There was someone talking to him, calm and concerned in the way medical professionals usually were. John followed their instructions and breathed. He wanted to tell them that he didn't care and that it didn't matter, but he couldn't. But it didn't. Even the pain in his burning lungs wasn't important because nothing was any more and nothing could hurt him now. Not any more than losing _him_. It didn't matter. No. Not any more.

 

“John! John! Oh thank Christ you're alright!” The familiar voice made through the roar of his eardrums and John looked up, his blurry eyes taking in the details of the salt and peppered hair, the weathered, exhausted look on the man's face and the perpetual trench coat. John blinked a few times and brushed the tears away as the bag was removed from his mouth. He didn't know by whom. He didn't care.

 

“God I was so worried when- John? Are you alright?” The detective asked, but John didn't respond. He didn't know how to. He wasn't alright. He was never going to _be_ alright. But it wasn't polite to say that. Only _he_ would say that. But John wasn't like _him_. John felt the other man look him over and heard a pained noise. John met those blue eyes and realised that he wasn't the only one that was hurting. No. Despite it all, the detective felt the loss too.

 

“Oh Christ John. You aren't alright, are you?” The detective asked and John felt that he should at least nod, but he didn't. He was tired. He wanted to go and sit down on the couch that still smelt like _him_. Maybe lie down in their bed, in the bed that held more pleasant memories than probably any other inch of the flat. Or London. Yes. That sounded like something he wanted to do, John thought as he looked at the Detective Inspector and saw him frown.

 

“Did they get you anywhere John?” He asked, his gruff voice filled with concern. Oh, John thought. He had forgotten about Mycroft. He felt a small stab of guilt. Mycroft had been trying to help and John had thrown it back at his face. Not very kind of him, John thought. But the detective was talking.

 

“We came here to see you and we found the broken glass, the bullets and the blood. We though you'd... I – I don't know _what_ I was thinking. Where were you?” Lestrade asked and John felt the confusion beginning to form but being washed away with the overwhelming pain and sorrow. The _idiot_ , John thought numbly. _He_ probably thought that Lestrade wouldn't care, that John wouldn't care. But they did. They all hurt and the loss wasn't just with those like Lestrade.

 

John looked around and took in the surroundings. The police cars were parked outside of 221B and there were uniformed constables guarding what he assumed was a crime scene. John didn't know _why_ their flat was a crime scene now, but John could see Anderson's grim face as he got his kit out and Donovan's exhausted eyes looking at him and the apology in those eyes. John ignored both of them and the eyes of the uniformed men and women and turned to Lestrade.

 

“John, what happened at the flat? Were you there?” Lestrade asked and John tried to focus. Was he- Mycroft. John thought. Mycroft had come over. He had been talking? _Had_ he been talking? John couldn't be sure. It didn't matter anyway. John looked away from Lestrade and to the crowd that was gathering. Crowds always gathered at crime scenes. Everyone got curious. It was human nature _, he_ would say. It was just what huddling masses do, John. They _huddle_ , _he_ would have said. John felt himself break just a little more as his eyes saw familiar brown curls in the crowd. His heart skipped a beat.

 

It wasn't _him._ Of course not. _He_ was gone now and _he_ wasn't coming back. John knew that, but his heart didn't. It made him look at the man with the curls. He was younger than _him_. At most 25? He was wearing a far too green large green winter coat over a cardigan and his neck was exposed. _He_ would have worn a scarf, John thought. _He_ was mighty fond of scarves. Scarves that John would grab and pull him down for- John stopped himself.

 

He saw that man with the curls ducking under the crime scene tape and talking to the constable that tried to stop him. There was a large, tall blonde man next to him, crowding him. Conversation clearly finished, the young man began to walk towards them and closer, John could see the cheekbones, it was the same delicate, strong features that _he_ had and John found himself mesmerised. Lestrade was talking but that was drowned out by the thudding of heartbeats in his ear.

 

The man was clearly not _him_ but they were so similar, the same bone structures and same lithe build that had John stepping away from Lestrade and take a step forward before he stopped himself. The man didn't. He kept coming forward until Lestrade turned to look at what John was looking at and shouted something. John ignored it all. He didn't have _his_ pale green eyes. He wore dark framed glasses but under those, John could see the hazel eyes, shot with spots of green.

 

He heard Lestrade saying something to the young man, moving forward to probably push him back and John felt something in his mind or his body perhaps screaming at him to stop Lestrade from touching him, but the tall blonde man that had been standing next to him stepped in and held Lestrade back as the young man made his way over to John.

 

“Doctor John Watson.” The young man said and John found himself frozen by that voice. It wasn't the deep baritone he was used to hearing, but it was close. There was that same... _something_ in that voice that made it carry across the noise in his eardrums. John looked up and met those hazel eyes with his own and the young man's eyes filled with concern and warmth. Oh God, those eyes, John thought. Even though they were different, they were so familiar.

 

The young man said something else, but John didn't hear it as he focused on the young man's eyes, his cheekbones and the lithe, artistic hands that seemed to want to touch him, but didn't. He noticed that those hands were shaking. The young man's next words though, brought John out of his reverie and caused Lestrade's angry words to stop. Everything stop.

 

“My name is Oscar Holmes, John. I'm Sherlock Holmes' brother.”

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

12:45

18 November 2013

 

James assessed the Quartermaster as subtly as he could as he drove them towards 221B Baker Street. Alec was surprisingly silent during the drive so far and Sherlock seemed to be deep in thought. James didn't even try to figure out just what was happening in that man's mind. Instead, he focused on the Quartermaster.

 

'I'm fine 007,' he had said, but James didn't buy it. The Quartermaster was avoiding making eye contact with him or Alec and more importantly, he avoided contact with everyone. The young man had visibly flinched when a bellboy had almost brushed up against him and that had James worried. James knew that kind of reaction. It took hours of torture and conditioning and James knew his history now, but he had never been clear about the details of Oscar Holmes' conditions after the incident.

 

James sort of wished that he had taken the time to study the young man's naked body more. To have studied the scars, if there were any, to know what kind of torture he had been subject to. But no. James had been too... distracted. The young man's body had been full of heat and desire and desperation and James had found his body responding in much the same way. It had almost been a surprise to himself. But the depth of emotion that he saw in the young man's eyes.

 

If James was honest, which he often wasn't to himself, he would have admitted that he was almost scared by that emotion. The young Quartermaster didn't see him as an agent. He saw him as his safety blanket almost and the mere possibility that James had that much power over some one, terrified him. But at the same time, James couldn't help but relish in it too. He sighed inwardly and looked at the Quartermaster again from the corner of his eyes.

 

The young man was pale. Nothing knew there but there was no bags under his eyes and he looked less gaunt than before. It was his eyes though that worried James. They were filled with wariness and pain that James didn't quite know how to interpret. James had to admit that he also wasn't used to seeing the young man so tense around him that- Oh. James stopped that train of thought before he crashed the car. He was going to have to go through that particular thought when he was alone, possibly in the company of a very expensive bottle of scotch.

 

“Damn. Scotland Yard turned the whole bloody street into a crime scene.” The Quartermaster said, cutting neatly into James' thoughts. Alec leaned forward from the back seat, undoing his seatbelt as he strained to see the tablet Q was holding. Sherlock didn't move.

 

“They must have come to check on John and found the remnants of the attack on Mycroft.” Sherlock said quietly and James noted that the man had been subdued the whole time they had been getting ready to leave the hotel and finding the new car. James knew that he ought to worry a little more about the other man, but frankly, his hand was rather full with the Quartermaster.

 

“John _is_ there though. Alright.” The Quartermaster said decisively and James felt his attention focus on that tone of voice and Alec seemed to do the same. That was the voice Q used when he needed their full attention and needed them to listen to what he had to say and follow his directions. The young man focused his attention on the hijacked CCTV footage for a long moment before he took a deep breath and took control.

 

“Alec, you are going to drive Sherlock to St. Andrews. It is just outside of the city. Sherlock can direct you to the location. You can wait for us there. James, you and I are going into the crime scene and collecting Doctor Watson and possibly the Detective Inspector Sherlock has been working with. If John is a target, it is likely that the inspector will be as well.” The Quartermaster said and James found himself nodding. He didn't like the idea of having the Quartermaster exposed in an open area like that, but it was very unlikely for any snipers to be able to take the shot when all the surrounding areas would bee filled with cops.

 

“Copy that. What is St. Andrews?” Alec asked, his voice as professional as his attitude was as far as it came to a direct order from one of the Branch Heads. Sherlock frowned at the suggestion, but the logic seemed to be sound enough for him to not object. As far as James could see, it was their only way. If Sherlock was to make an appearance, it was very likely that photographs would be taken and it would be widely known. That would make it difficult for them to stay under the radar. John being taken away from the scene by the Detective Inspector and the two of them though? That could just be for questioning and that wouldn't raise as many eyebrows.

 

“It's-”

 

“Oh wait. Is it that mansion that was converted into a hospital back in 1900s? The one Prince Charles was in a couple of years back?” Alec interrupted with the question and the Quartermaster nodded. Damn. Was there anywhere the Holmes family was _not_ connected to? James wondered for a moment but didn't voice the thought. He wasn't sure how the Quartermaster would take it if he realised that James remembered their shared history.

 

“Yes. That one.” Sherlock answered with a quiet drawl and James stopped the car, double parking. The car behind him beeped, but he ignored it favour of getting out of the vehicle and jogging to Q's side of the car. The Quartermaster, having learnt James' ways of doing protection, stayed in the car until James opened the door to let him out. Alec jumped into the driver's seat and the car was moving within a moment. James raised a hand to placate the other driver, who flipped him off for his efforts. James chuckled, shaking his head and saw the Quartermaster doing the same with a small smile.

 

“Shall we?” James asked, offering his arm and the Quartermaster took it, wrapping his hand around the crook of James' arm and they began to walk. James had to admit that he had almost been prepared for the young man to reject the offer and was pleasantly surprised.

 

They walked to the crowd and James felt the young man beginning to tense next to him. Damn. Apparently the recent events had brought up all the fears that had been dormant for some time, James noted with fury he was rather surprised to feel. He looked at the young man, but he was studiously avoiding James' eyes. The scared, terrified but determined Oscar Holmes again, not the Quartermaster of MI6, James thought.

 

“I'm going to go through first. Follow behind me.” James instructed as he began to part his way through the crowd, smiling to himself when he noticed the Quartermaster's hand clutching at the back of his jacket. He excused, apologised and pushed his way through the crowd, moving slowly enough for the young man to keep up with him. Soon enough, they were right at the crime scene tape.

 

James moved so that the Quartermaster was in front of him and held him with his arms closed around the young man. The Quartermaster leaned into James' chest, his body completely relaxing as he did so.

 

“So, what is the oh grand plan, Quartermaster?” James asked in a whisper, holding the young man close to himself and leaning down to whisper in his ear. The Quartermaster of MI6, complete with the confident eyes and twinkle of mischief in his eyes leaned back and to the side as if he was encouraging the movement before he wound an arm around James' neck and pulled him down to answer.

 

“Intimidation. Threat. Non-lethal force. Kidnap if necessary. Are you game 007?” The Quartermaster asked. Oh yes, most definitely the Quartermaster of MI6 and _not_ the young man James had taken to bed. The Quartermaster pulled that persona out in the way Alec and James pulled out their many personalities and aliases. James had to admit, he was impressed.

 

“For you? Of course _sir._ ” James nearly purred his words and the Quartermaster's ear and felt him shiver lightly in his arms. James had wanted to pull back, not use sex and seduction as he always did as a tool, but the Quartermaster seemed comfortable with it and it was their routine. The young man needed routine right now, not changes. James knew that was a filthy lie and an excuse, but he was an excellent liar

 

“Shall we, agent?” The Quartermaster said as he ducked under the tape and James followed close behind. The constable that was clearly guarding the crime scene and keeping the crime scene log stopped them with a hand and a commanding presence. But hey, compared to what James was used to? It was like a child in kindergarten trying to play official.

 

“Stop. You can't step into a crime scene. You need-”

 

“I need to speak to the officer in charge. Now. Direct me to him.” The Quartermaster said with the tone that sent 00s running and following the directions he gave to the letter. James watched as the indecision flicked through the young Constable's face and then solidify as he recognised the commanding presence if nothing else.

 

“The officer in charge is Detective Inspector Lestrade. He is over there.” The Constable said, pointing out a man James recognised from the photographs the Quartermaster had shown him and Alec before leaving the hotel. The Quartermaster made no move to walk towards him and waited. The Constable hesitated for a moment.

 

“...Sir.” He added and the Quartermaster nodded curtly before he began to walk. James noted the small smile on his face as he walked alongside the young man and wondered just how playful the Quartermaster would be in bed if he brought 'sir' into the bedroom. Oh God, he really needed to get his mind out of the gutter. Or the bedroom. Most likely both, James thought as he tried not to remember the way the lithe body had felt under his hands.

 

The Quartermaster walked through the crime scene as if he owned it and no one questioned them as they made their way to where Detective Inspector Lestrade was. The man next to Lestrade, his eyes were completely focused on the Quartermaster's face, as if he was mesmerised. James found himself tensing at the attention, but the Quartermaster merely met his eyes and nodded to himself.

 

“What the- What is this kid doing here? Jamerson?!” The Detective Inspector Lestrade yelled out when he turned and saw the Quartermaster and James standing there. He made a move to move forward, clearly trying to be physically intimidating with the Quartermaster and James moved. He moved until he was blocking the older man. The Quartermaster didn't seem to notice the Detective Inspector at all, focusing all his attention on John. James used his peripheral vision to keep an eye on the two of them and- damn.

 

James recognised the broken man. His dark blonde hair and the brown eyes filled with nothing but pain and sorrow had once been filled with good humour and determination. Oh fuck, James thought, Alec had better known what the fuck he was doing. James took a deep breath and focused his attention back on the older detective who was clearly angry. Not just because of this situation, James noted, but just angry because of everything that had happened. For a man that was not very good with emotions, Sherlock Holmes had clearly made a lot of people feel them.

 

“Who the hell are you people?” The Detective Inspector asked angrily and James considered his options before he stepped in very close to the other man and carefully masking his gestures as if he was pulling out a card or a phone, he pulled the Walther PPK from his holster and kept it hidden in his jacket as he levelled it against the Inspector's stomach. The other man froze and me James' eyes with widening blue ones of his own.

 

“What the-”

 

“Inspector, we mean neither you or Doctor Watson any harm. But it would be your best interests, and his, to come with us.” James said as he left his intentions perfectly clear. Well, his false intentions anyway. He wasn't about to shoot a Detective Inspector, but he weren't to know that. The Quartermaster looked briefly at him and raised his eyebrows but didn't seem too concerned as he looked at the Detective Inspector himself before turning his attention back to John.

 

“Doctor John Watson?” The Quartermaster said in a soft voice that he didn't utilise often, but seemed to cut through whatever thoughts and emotions that seemed to cloud the other man's mind. The pain filled brown eyes looked up and met the Quartermaster's and James noted with some concern that the young man's hands were shaking.

 

“We are not going anywhere with you people.” The Detective Inspector said angrily, even with his whole body shaking with the adrenalin rush that must have come over him with discovering a firearm against his stomach. It was rather impressive that his voice didn't shake. It wasn't as if British Police Force was particularly used to firearms, since they weren't issued with one. The Quartermaster looked at the Inspector but he spoke to John Watson when he opened his mouth.

 

“My name is Oscar Holmes. I am Sherlock Holmes' brother.” The Quartermaster said and John stepped forward almost immediately. There was no surprise in the doctor's eyes. Just acceptance. He had made the same connections that both Alec and James himself had made when they had looked at the two of them together. The resemblance was unmistakable. He saw the Inspector look over his Quartermaser with a calculating eye before he obviously came to the same conclusion.

 

“Oh bloody hell. I don't think I can deal with another one of you.” The Inspector said with a gruff tone and James chuckled in agreement. Having two Holmes in the one room was like having two, extremely intelligent, hyperactive teenagers on speed. At least that was his experience so far. But before the Inspector could say something else or before the Quartermaster could, John spoke.

 

“I'll come with you. Wherever you want to go.” He said in a voice that was hoarse and broken. The Quartermaster nodded solemnly and offered the other man a small smile as he extended a shaking hand. The doctor took it to straighten up but let go as soon as he was steady on his feet. The Inspector sighed but he too seemed to come to the same decision because he began to walk, ignoring James' gun or raised eyebrow.

 

“I'm guessing we are taking my car then.” The Inspector said as he began to walk away and James let the Quartermaster and John follow behind him before he crowded around the Quartermaster. He vaguely paid attention as the Inspector made an excuse of taking John to a hospital as he looked around and spotted the two men that had been staring at the four of them the whole time, since he and the Quartermaster had stepped into the crime scene. He recognised one of them and that was enough. Bloody hell, James thought. MI5.

 

What the hell did he get himself into? James wondered before he shrugged it off. Whatever it was, it was far, far too late in the game to step out.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright here is another one my faithful and amazingly supportive readers! Thank you for the votes so far~ I am not very surprised to learn that option B is popular with A. More votes would be good though, since so far A and B seems to be on more or less equal footing and hey... I can barely decide what to wear every morning ~ choosing fics is way harder than that =P 
> 
> So~ here are the options again and once again! Thank you very much for all the support. A writer can never have too many compliments since we are self conscious bunch that need constant assurances that we don't suck~ needy? God yeah! 
> 
>  
> 
> For my next fic, should I:
> 
> a. Continue with Bondlock Verse - dealing with the aftermath of the Oldest Dance OR  
> b. Write a story in which 007 goes undercover to recruit Q (still Bondlock because I cannot imagine Q NOT being a Holmes) OR  
> c. Write a fic with a supernatural theme in which vampires and werewolves may be involved?
> 
> Enjoy!


	14. Fourteenth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Lestarde gets kidnapped by the very mysterious Oscar Holmes and his shadow... 
> 
> Or in which John realises that Sherlock isn't quite dead and the big puzzle hanging over their heads is finally solved. Sort of.

13:01

18 November 2012

 

Vehicular accidents were one of the biggest cause of death and disability in the UK and indeed, anywhere in the world where cars dominated as a form of transport. It didn't help that it wasn't James' steady and highly trained hands driving but a police officer that probably had no idea about velocity and torque and never learnt how to use controlled braking instead of relying on ABS. Q felt his hands shake and felt James' calming hand on his lower back. It helped to ground him, but the fear was still there.

 

Q looked out the window to the passing traffic and distracted himself from the moving vehicle by concentrating on the problem at hand. The questions rose immediately. Why here? Why to 221B? Why did they attack Mycroft when he was within 221B? Why not at his office, or home or a thousand other places Mycroft is seen in. He is a public figure. He is seen in social functions day in and day out. There were plenty of more opportunities to attack him, if that they wanted to do was show that they had the upper hand or draw them out of hiding. But they _chose_ 221B. Why?

 

Because it _had_ to be at 221B. Why? The attack wasn't called in. It didn't have to be. Eventually someone was going to check on John and they were going to find the remnants of the attack. Then police would be contacted. Then of course, Lestrade and his team would attend because it was 221B. No, more importantly, they were more than likely to be the ones to find the location in disarray and- Q's eyes widened.

 

“Damn it. I can't believe I fell for it.” Q almost burst out and apparently it had been such a surprise because the car swerved a little before it was back within its own lane along the road Q had directed the Inspector drive. Q activated their communication systems and the firewalls he had built to protect them through the satellite link. He had made it clear that from the moment they left the hotel, the earwigs were to stay on them at all times and that he would activate it when necessary. It was necessary. He heard the small buzzing noise go through the earwigs as the systems started up and he heard the soft noise of breathing.

 

“We screwed up.” Q said, almost to himself but he knew that his brother would understand it. There was no doubt that if Q had been able to reach at least the partial conclusion, Sherlock would have figured the whole thing out.

 

'That is an understatement. This whole thing was a trap.' Sherlock said through the earwig, his voice full of annoyance and... admiration. Sherlock couldn't resist a good puzzle and he always loved it when he was challenged, regardless of who it was by. Q nodded to himself and saw the way James' eyes narrowed.

 

“With what purpose? What is the motive?” Q asked and saw that the Inspector was giving him an odd look, but he seemed to know better than to interfere as Q put his finger to his ear to indicate the device. The inspector frowned, but he looked away and back onto the road. They had to figure this thing out fast, before they found themselves walking into an ambush.

 

'Has there been anything odd lately at work? Any attempts to hack into your mainframes or-' Sherlock asked and Q felt a shiver go down his spine. Of course. No wait. They couldn't though. No.

 

“A month ago. We started getting attacks on the firewalls. Nothing too serious, nothing that I couldn't handle but they were smart. They continued for three weeks.” Q said grimly and saw the same understanding begin to form in James' eyes. God that man was intelligent, Q thought with some surprise. There was always something of an underestimation of the field agents from the Q Branch. Since the agents did solve a lot of their problems with physical violence it was understandable, but it seemed that most had forgotten that 00s are often required to pretend to be businessmen and more often than not, highly educated. And they were. It was just hard to keep things in perspective when you dealt with people with multiple doctorates and I.Q's that put most 'geniuses' to shame.

 

'Moriarty. Clever. Clever enough to fool both you and me. Moriarty knew that the future, the power in the future was going to be through information. Through technology. Even the idiots on the street know that the advances in technology and the information that influence world markets first come through the government agencies. Bank of Britain and the Royal Treasury was the beginning. With those systems hacked, Moriarty knew that others could fall too. Except one. There was one system that Moriarty's pet hackers could not get into.' Sherlock continued, his words fast and his tone excited. Q followed the flow of logic.

 

“MI6. He couldn't get into MI6.” Q said and he heard the hum in Sherlock's voice and felt James' arms tighten around him. Q let that comfort him as he closed his eyes for a moment before he opened them and met the detective inspector's questioning eyes through the mirror. He shook his head lightly to indicate that he will explain it later.

 

'Yes. Out of all the systems in the world. MI6 was the only one he realised he couldn't sink his claws into. Because of you. When he realised that, it is likely that he employed the mole he had in MI6 to find out the reasons behind it. Moriarty learnt about you. Then about your connection to me. It must have been like a Christmas present for him. He would have them spent months plotting the chain of events leading to his death, my death and-' Sherlock paused, seemingly reluctant to finish the sentence. James apparently held no such qualms.

 

“Bringing the Quartermaster of MI6 out of the safety of MI6 into the streets of London. This whole thing was a trap.” James finished and there was such fury lacing his tone that Q felt a small spike of fear and something else that he wasn't ready to think about, go through him. James didn't seem to notice as he held Q tight against himself as if he was trying to make sure that nothing could happen to Q, even from within the moving vehicle.

 

'Exactly. He laid out the facilities as a sacrifice. He knew that he wouldn't need the elaborate organisation going forward if he had the skills Oscar had. He wouldn't need anyone to do the work physically because Oz would be able to do it all online. He also knew that with Oscar in hand, he could have all the power and knowledge in the world because he would hold the key to all that information. Imagine what Oscar and one of you could do together if you had no qualms about morality or ethics. Imagine what _I_ could do with Oscar.' Sherlock said and this time, there was anger in his voice. Q shuddered. He _knew_ what they could be capable of. He had seen it with Silva. He had seen it with dozens of Silva would-be's that he had dispatched agents to assassinate.

 

Computer technology had made everything convenient, but at the same time, it has left the world vulnerable to anyone that has the power and the capacity to speak the language the computers do. There was no system that Q could not break into, if he desired it and if it was necessary. It would take time and effort, but it was all too possible. Q had always known that his skills were dangerous and that it had to be overseen and there were strict boundaries. Q had abided by them because once he slipped, he wouldn't be able to go back. That's why MI6 had an oversight committee and that was why Q Branch was monitored closely by M. They were free enough to invent and make the breakthroughs, but they were also restricted to ensure that they didn't abuse the power they had. Power that Moriarty clearly wanted. Except.

 

“That is assuming that I will work for him. I would never.” Q said even as he didn't voice the other thought he had. There was something off still. Something that didn't make sense, but he had a feeling that Sherlock was getting to it and it helped to hear the full deduction, the full story that his mind wasn't able to go through at the same speed as Sherlock's. Besides, they sort of had to be on the same page for whatever they were doing, to work.

 

'It doesn't matter what you would and would not do Oscar. You don't know what you would be capable of until the situation arises. But that isn't the point. The point is that he drew you out. Set up this whole thing as a trap for you. Then reason dictates that there must have been a reason as to why we were called to 221B, why Mycroft was attacked there, why the police were there. They couldn't be sure about John's presence, but the police at 221B? That was no doubt planned. Why then?' Both James and Q looked at each other and the conclusions drew themselves and fell into place. They both looked at the Detective Inspector, who met their eyes through the back mirror with confusion clearly colouring them.

 

“Pull over. Now.” James commanded and his voice was just a step away from being harsh. The Detective Inspector frowned, but he obeyed, seemingly aware of just how dangerous 007 could be if the need rose. If it was required. Q felt the anger build up. As well as the fear. The immobilising fear he had only felt a handful of times in his life. Right now though, the anger was well ahead in the emotional line than the fear and that was good enough.

 

“Out of the car Inspector.” 007 said as he exited the vehicle and waited for the Inspector to get out. Q watched them carefully even as he thought through the last pieces of the puzzle. Moriarty wanted Q. The whole elaborate thing was a trap to bring Q out into the open and leave him vulnerable. Where was the snatch meant to happen then? At the safe house? Probably. They would have underestimated the abilities of the 00 agent or they had overestimated their own. So, they were planning to snatch him then. But it didn't work. So 221B. Bring him out of hiding again and...

 

“Mobile phone is sending out a GPS signal and his police radio's been tagged.” 007 said as he ducked into the car and handed the two items to Q. Of course. Bugs usually needed a battery to operate its signal from. What better than a police radio? Those batteries last anywhere up to 12 to 15 hours. Plenty of time to track Q to wherever he was going to go. And the phone? The smartphones these days were perfect trackers without a single modification. All you needed to do was hack in. Simple.

 

“I'll disable them. It will show them our hand, but it is better than having the signal track us to a safer location.” Q said as he took the two items from 007 and got to work. He could hear the palpable silence through the earwigs. There was anger and clear frustration. 00's weren't exactly used to be frustrated in their missions. They usually got in, did what they had to and got out. There was usually some kinks and issues, but nothing like this. Nothing like a spider web that kept on re-

 

“Oh God. Why didn't I notice before?” Q asked himself in wonder of his own stupidity. The solution was simple. Far too simple to be real, but when that piece fell in, the rest of the puzzles did too. He kept his hands busy whilst the Detective Inspector and James got back into the car and settled in, the older man clearly unsettled by finding out that someone had planted bugs on him. James wrapped an arm around Q almost automatically as soon as he was in the car and Q had to admit that he rather appreciated the warmth and the safety it provided.

 

'I know. But once we eliminate the impossible, no matter how improbable, must be the truth'. Sherlock said in a thoughtful tone. Q almost smiled, and would have had he not been drowning in the fear and uncertainty. Q took a deep breath as he pulled the last connecting wires off the bug on the radio and started on the phone. All he needed to do was remove the GPS chip. He continued in silence, not willing to voice the conclusion both he and Sherlock had reached.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

The dark, wooden panelled walls were familiar. There was no sharp scents of ammonia typical in hospitals and comforting to a medical man like himself, but a heady luxurious scent of wood polish and roses instead. But even that, even the odd feeling that was gathering at the core of his stomach was held at bay by the sheer sorrow that dominated. Everything he saw, everything he smelt, everything that he experienced seemed to go through that filter before he could process it.

 

John focused his attention on the young man walking in front of him. He was beautiful in the ways that Sherlock had been. There was an ethereal something about him that had made John's heart flutter when he saw Sherlock for the first time and then again and again each time John saw him after a moment away. It used to take his breath away. It didn't now. Besides, the young man wasn't Sherlock. He was Oscar, Sherlock's brother and despite knowing that he really shouldn't, John couldn't help but feel comforted by Oscar's resemblance.

 

“Are you alright John?” Lestrade asked, keeping a firm hand on John's elbow as if the man was afraid that John was going to fall over at any moment now, which, given his recent history and ill health, wasn't exactly an unreasonable conclusion. John nodded curtly to him because well, what else was he going to do? He was sick of that question being asked, but he knew all too well how difficult it was to talk to someone going through a loss.

 

“The doctors will be ready for you in a moment Dr Watson. I also have Dr Mansfield requesting to see you if you have the time sir. He is worried about your current state of health.” The man, Mr McMillian had he had introduced himself, said as they walked. John ignored him. His focus well on the young man anyway. Oscar looked at the man with guarded eyes and put on a smile, that fake little smile Sherlock used to use too and shook his head lightly.

 

“I'm afraid I don't have the time for now Mr McMillian. Perhaps at a later time?” Oscar said with a polite tone and the man seemed to understand immediately because he nodded and stopped in front of a door. The heavy oak door with a fingerprint scanner in front. The man moved towards the door, but the blonde man that followed Oscar like a faithful shadow, stopped him with a hand. He looked at the younger man and they seemed to communicate through their eyes as the young man nodded a moment after.

 

The blonde man approached the door and knocked on it with several rather complicated sequences of knocks before Oscar approached the fingerprint pad and pressed his thumb onto it. It beeped for a moment before the locks disengaged. The young man turned to the man that _had_ to be the hospital's director if the suit was any indication.

 

“Thank you Mr McMillian. Perhaps you can arrange for Dr Watson's physicians to attend in about 30 minutes?” Oscar asked and there was such authority in that voice that the other man was clearly only given the choice to answer in the positive. He nodded without hesitation and with a slight bow of his head, left them, walking the opposite direction, back towards the reception area. The blonde man stepped up to the door again and opened it, his movements careful and tense, as if he was expecting trouble any second now. John found himself unable to care even at the possibility of imminent danger. Apparently all that combat training only worked when you actually cared about your well being.

 

“Put that thing down. I'm getting rather tiresome of people pointing guns at my asset.” The blonde man said with some light irritation as he walked through the door and Oscar followed. Lestrade pushed John ahead of himself and John walked into the room and froze. There were people speaking but John didn't notice any of that. All he could see was-

 

No.

 

God no. No. It wasn't real. He told himself. It couldn't be real. But he would have recognised those cheekbones anywhere. He had run his fingers along those auburn curls a thousand times. He recognised the slightly chapped lips and the icy green eyes that looked straight into him. Into his soul. God. No. This was too cruel. Too much. John felt his heart skip a beat, then two, then three as his breathing stopped. He gulped the air in. He couldn't breathe. But that wasn't important because _he_ was speaking.

 

“John.”

 

The broken voice entered John's reverie, cutting into his thoughts and making the doubt form. It couldn't be real. _He_ couldn't be real. Could _he_? What if- but he saw the- oh God. No. This was far, far too cruel. Far far too much. John took a step back. The figure, _his_ figure, stepped forward.

 

“John.”

 

_He_ called again. In _his_ voice. In that deep satiny voice that _he_ would use when _he_ was feeling emotional, feeling emotions _he_ didn't know how to describe. It was so familiar, so intrinsically _him_ that John took a step forward. His body yearned to touch _him,_ to feel _him_ under his hands to make sure that this was real. That _he_ was real. But he couldn't. What if? What if it wasn't real? What if it was a cruel joke from God? What if his mind was playing tricks? It wouldn't be the first time.

 

“No. You aren't real. You can't be real.” John muttered, because what else could he do? He shook his head a few times. _He_ didn't disappear. But he saw Lestrade at the corner of his eyes. He too was staring. At _him_. Lestrade opened his mouth. He closed it again and opened it again, seemingly in as much doubt and surprise as John. Then Lestrade finally spoke.

 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade said and the relief that flooded through John was... overwhelming. So much so that his knees felt weak. But even as the relief washed over him, so did the anger and pain and all the hurtful emotions he had dealt with for the past week. The numbness was gone and instead, fury burnt through the pain and anger. John found himself stepping forward in the silent room. No one spoke, no one moved.

 

John took two steps forward and then it was easy to move towards him, acknowledge him as existing in John's world again. He was here. He was real and he was alive. John rushed those words through his mind over and over again as he took one more step forward and let his right hook fly right into Sherlock's perfectly chiselled jaw.

 

“You _fucking_ bastard! You _bloody fucking_ bastard!” John nearly screamed as Sherlock lost his balance with the punch and haltered to the right. Sherlock bloody Holmes would have seen it coming, but he had let John punch him and even though it must hurt, he didn't cover the effected area with a hand and straightened up, his eyes focusing on John's eyes immediately. A drop of blood fell from his lips to the ground, a splash of bright red falling onto the hard wooden boards.

 

“John I-” Sherlock tried, but John didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear an apology, even if it was incredibly rare for the genius to do so. He just wanted all of it to have been a dream, to not remember what it felt like to lose him. To not feel this ridiculous fury. John raised his arm again, but Sherlock didn't move, didn't flinch. Damn him, John thought as he stopped mid-action, unable to go through with another punch. Another drop of blood travelled from the cut on his lips, down his chin and onto the floor. The genius took two steps forward until it was close enough to touch John.

 

“You are a fucking bastard Sherlock. You know that?” John asked, all that anger draining out of him as he felt Sherlock's hand touch his face. It was only then, when those artistic hands that plucked out the most beautiful notes from the violin, that even the fury drained out and left nothing but relief. Sheer, overwhelming relief at the fact that he would not have to live out the rest of his life without this genius, that he was alive and he was here. With him. John's knees gave out, but Sherlock caught him daftly and led him to the floor, cradling him in his arms. Sherlock buried his head in John's shoulder and there was relief there too.

 

“I do apologise for breaking into your reunion here, but can someone tell me what in the bloody hell is going on?” Lestrade's voice broke into the reverie as John closed his eyes and let his senses take in everything about the genius, like the way he smelt, the way his skin felt under his own and the way that the genius' breath tickled his neck. John didn't open his eyes but Sherlock lifted his head.

 

“I-” Sherlock started but didn't seem to quite know what to say. John smiled a little at that. Sherlock Holmes lost for words. It had to be a first. But Lestrade didn't seem to have the patience for it. John, he had to admit, could not give a flying rat's arse about what was happening. All that mattered was that Sherlock was alive. That everything that happened in the last week wasn't real. For the moment, he didn't even need an explanation, just the warm hands and body wrapped around his.

 

“You faked your own death. I got that bit, you bloody idiot. I mean what the hell is going on?” Lestrade asked again, anger palpable. The inspector was clearly used to being in control. Not complete control, as no one ever could when there was Sherlock Holmes involved, but some semblance of control and awareness of the situation. It must irk him to not have that, John thought. Then Oscar Holmes spoke up and John felt his eyes fly open and the shock settle over him as did, apparently, to the other occupiers of the room.

 

“Moriarty is alive.”

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. First of all, apologies are in order. I work odd hours, in a rather stressful job that somehow also piles on paperwork like a bitch. It often means that when I come home from work, typing anything more than my password into the computer seems like torture. It also means that my brain is absolutely fried and I find anything more than a simple yes or no question, complicated and impossible to deal with. Hence the delay. I will try not to let such delays happen again and write more on the days I have off - when I'm not being dragged out for drinks or God only know what else. 
> 
> Okay, as far as the content is concerned, I do apologise for the cliff hanger, but what writer can really resist them? And the brevity is due to the fact that the next chapter is long winded. Also, you may have noticed that John is unable to think Sherlock's name. This actually comes from a play I watched in New York, called The Testment of Mary, in which Mary is portrayed not as the Mother of God, but a mother grieving for the loss of her child. In this play, Mary never says Jesus' name because she cannot bear it, cannot even say it for the grief. I thought John would be the same. So I do apologise for the confusion (with all the 'he's) but that was the reasoning behind it 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I hope to be able to meet you guys with a few more shortly!


	15. Fifteenth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock reveals all and Lestrade finds himself living in the world of TV shows than reality and in which James tries to deny that maybe he is a little too invested in Q. 
> 
> Or in which James has Q against the wall and can't help but kiss him and in which we find out who Moriarty is and just how to get rid of him once and for all.

22:00

18 November 2013

 

“I do hope they taught you how to use a gun at least.” The blonde man, Alec Trevelyan, as he had introduced himself, said as he handed a Glock 22 to Lestrade. He took it gingerly but he nodded. He was trained in firearms. Most higher ranking officers did. They just didn't carry it with them most of the time because there was very little for it as a detective. Unlike the movies and dramas, detectives usually got to the scene last and they were there to investigate, not chase after armed criminals. But the weight of the Glock was familiar and he racked it after sliding the magazine home and conducted a field check to ensure that it was loaded with the first round. The other man nodded.

 

“Good. I really don't have the time of the day nor the patience to teach a civilian today.” Alec said and Lestrade frowned. He was no more a civilian than the other man was, but he seemed to have a different definition of civilian. There was something oddly professional about the two blonde man that had Lestrade on edge. He had heard their discussions enough to know what they were, but the doubt was still in his mind. After all, MI6? Conspiracies about a man that wasn't quite dead? This was starting to feel all too much like X-Files rather than real life.

 

“No no no. Sherlock listen to what I'm saying. I'm telling you that by the computer files, that one cannot be the-” The young man was different now too. At the crime scene, he had been full of authority and command and it had even Lestrade thinking that he was on the top of the food chain somewhere, but now, in the safety of the hospital room, he sounded more like a petulant teenager arguing with his older brother than anything else. Oh God, Sherlock Holmes acting like an older brother. That was mindblowingly new.

 

“Oz, Moriarty would have planned even that. Don't be daft little brother.” Sherlock said in return as the two of them glowered at each other over the computers that had been set up on one of the tables. This certainly was not the kind of hospital Lestrade was used to, that was for sure. The room was large, large enough to be a living room in someone's house and there was a four post bed, state of the arts though, so it could be adjusted as required and all the medical equipment was new and clearly expensive, but other than that, there were chairs and tables that made it seem more like that said living room.

 

John was on the bed, with a drip attached to his arm and drifting lightly in and out of sleep now that the adrenalin was out of his system. He was looking better than he had at the crime scene, but there was still pallor in his face that Lestrade didn't quite like. Nor the doctors, it seemed. The two doctors had been extremely professional and there were also extremely well known, since Lestrade recognised both as top surgeons in their fields. The fact that they were monitoring the health of a man clearly suffering from nothing more than exhaustion and malnutrition had Lestrade's head spinning.

 

“Don't be an idiot Sherlock. They are going to have set up their bases in accordance with the infor- wait. No. You're right. They would have figured that I would target the ones with the intelligence rather than- of course.” The young man said, his movements on the computer frantic. Sherlock nodded his satisfaction before he moved back to the bed where John was. He had done that in the last couple of hours, almost compulsively. He touched John's hands and his pulse points as if he had to reassure himself that John was there, real and in the flesh as if just _knowing_ wasn't enough. Just _seeing_ wasn't enough.

 

Lestrade had to admit that it was fascinating to see Sherlock like that. He had called himself a sociopath and Donovan was convinced that he was a psychopath, but Lestrade was starting to doubt them both. No sociopath could feel the way that Sherlock did. No psychopath could care like he did. There was clear affection in his eyes, and regret when he looked at John and that couldn't be faked.

 

The two blondes were near another table, an array of weapons laid out between them. Most of them were handguns, but there were small devices that Lestrade didn't recognise between them. That and their guns had strange modifications done to them that made them light up whenever they touched them. Not to mention that Alec, the blonde that met them in the room seemed to have an odd understanding with John that had Lestrade slightly confused. The two of them clearly knew each other, if the familiarity in their eyes was anything to go by. Everything was accumulating to make Lestrade feel very, so very out of his depth.

 

As soon as John had been calm enough and the news that Moriarty was alive sunk in, the two men had looked at each other and the question that formed in John's eyes was clear as the day, but he didn't voice it. The other man simply shook his head with a small smile and John seemed to understand. Lestrade had a feeling that they would talk things out later. And he would pay a great deal of money to be the fly on the wall when that conversation happened. Especially because Sherlock's eyes too filled up with an emotion no sociopath could ever feel.

 

“Fine. The one on Church street then. He would expect me to be at the one in Trafalgar Square.” The young Holmes said as he stood back from the computer console and went to the printer. Sherlock nodded. Lestrade still hadn't been given an explanation but he had a feeling that things were moving too fast for them to have a moment to sit down and chat about everything. All he was able to gather was that the three men, being Oscar Holmes and the men that introduced themselves as Alec Trevelyan and James Bond, were MI6.

 

Oscar Holmes was apparently far more important than Lestrade ever thought possible with a Holmes, being what they called a 'Quartermaster' and apparently Moriarty had drawn him out to trap him somehow. He wasn't quire sure exactly what the Quartermaster was and exactly what he did, but he had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with computers, if the way the young man handled them was any indication. It was also clear that the two blonde men was meant to keep him safe and alive.

 

“Exactly. If that is the case then reason dictates that Moriarty must be at the one in Trafalgar Square. Moriarty would want to make sure that you are caught and more importantly, that you aren't harmed during it.” Sherlock said and there was a hint of anger in that voice that surprised Lestrade. From what he had gathered, Sherlock had an older brother, one that allegedly Sherlock's nemesis, and he did not like this said older brother, but the way he was reacting to this younger brother of his? It was just like how an overprotective brother would act.

 

“We know where he will be. Then I suggest you go back to MI6 sir. It is not safe for you in London right now.” James Bond, the blonde man that had been shadowing him said with a commanding tone coupled with something like concern. The younger man turned around and looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

 

“Moriarty has a mole in my own freaking department and you think it will be safe for me there? Besides, if you remember our first few discussions in relation to this matter, you will recall that I said I will not be returning to MI6 until this is done. It isn't done yet 007.” The young man's voice took on that command again as if he could switch it on and off and the other man responded to it by straightening up. His eyes narrowed too as he turned to look at the younger man.

 

“Q. I need to keep you safe. I can't do that in the middle of a gunfight.” The man said, a pleading tone entering his voice. It was almost odd, to see a man that could clearly make the young man do whatever he wanted, by sheer force if necessary, nearly begging the other to reconsider his decision. Lestrade felt like he was watching something private occur and apparently he wasn't the only one if the way Sherlock and the other man, Alec, turned away was any indication.

 

“Don't try that with me agent. I have access to your full dossier and I know exactly what you are capable of. I am also capable of looking after myself and more importantly, you need me.” The young man said with a sly smile and there was a tone of finality in his voice that made the blonde man turn around with a sigh and go back to cleaning is gun. Alec patted him on the shoulder, but it seemed the discussion was over.

 

“So. Moriarty, he will be at the Trafalgar Square location. But the true main frame will be at the Church Street location?” The young man questioned and this time, Sherlock looked up at him with a questioning glance and there was that scary brilliance in those eyes that Lestrade came to respect, if he couldn't respect the man himself for his faults.

 

“No, not _he_. She. _She_ will be at Trafalgar Square, waiting for you.” Sherlock said and this time, the whole room turned to look at him with questioning eyes. She? Where the hell did that come from, Lestrade wondered. Sherlock looked around to all of them with exasperation in his eyes, as if he could not understand how they didn't know, how they didn't understand where his thoughts were going or coming from. That expression? Lestrade was well used to.

 

“What do you mean she?” Lestrade asked, knowing that he was going to be ignored, more or less. It seemed that as long as Oscar Holmes was around, Sherlock Holmes' full attention was going to be on the young man. Sherlock turned to look at him though with that look of 'are you an idiot?' engraved on his face. Lestrade rolled his eyes and made a gesture to suggest that Sherlock continue, even if it meant that whatever came out of his mouth was going to be belittling at the very least.

 

“Moriarty. _She_ will be there. It's obvious _isn't it_?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow and Lestrade shook his head as he waited for the brilliant observation to come through. He had come to terms with the fact that the body he saw with the bullet wound on top of 221B was _not_ Moriarty's but the rest was beyond his powers of deduction.

 

“Do enlighten us Sherlock.” Lestrade said with his own exasperated tone as he flopped down onto the nearest, extremely comfortable and far too expensive chair and looked at the mad genius. The three other men looked at him expectantly too and Sherlock sighed. Dramatically. Of course.

 

“Moriarty was clever. _Far_ too clever to be real. To be one person. Then he killed himself. There were countless other ways that I could think of that he could have used, but he relished in the drama of it, in the self sacrifice that it took to bring his plans to fruition. Except, if there is no one to reap the benefits, there is no point for a plan like his. Ergo, another Moriarty. Moriarty is a joint creation from two minds. Two alike, _very_ clever minds.” Sherlock said and Lestrade let that sink in for a moment, but it felt as unreal and as impossible as the whole MI6 involvement in his damned life.

 

“So, Moriarty is two people? Not one? Okay, fine, but who is it then? Who is the other one?” Lestrade asked and this time, Sherlock did roll his eyes at him. He didn't seem to feel the same idiocy from his brother or the other two agents, which meant that it was someone Sherlock thought Lestrade should know. Someone close then. Someone close enough to know who Sherlock was and then make the rest of the links. There were only three women that Sherlock was even remotely close to. But for the life of him-

 

“Molly? You think _Molly Harper_ is _Moriarty?”_ Lestrade asked with outrage and saw the glimpse of faint respect in the consulting detective's eyes. No way, Lestrade thought, even as the pieces fell into place. She knew Sherlock. She knew Sherlock very well. In fact, she asked a lot of questions about him when he first began to turn up at the crime scenes. They had thought that it was because she had a crush on him. She had always seemed so innocuous, so absolutely innocent, but when you put all the pieces together, Molly was there at every crucial points. She had the right access. Oh dear God.

 

“No. Molly and Jim made Moriarty. Without him, she is just half of the figure, but yes. She is Moriarty. It is likely that the whole plan was engineered in order for her to gain absolute control and power. Something that she is not likely to have had until her adulthood. She met Jim and the two of them realised that they both had a talent for the same thing. Then their minds melded and we were given the criminal genius. Now, if you are done asking me questions, we have work to do.” Sherlock said with a flurry as he pointed to the map and brought Oscar's attention to himself.

 

I'll be damned, Lestrade thought as he sat back and went back to watching the room. The two agents seemed to settle back into getting ready for whatever they were about to do and the two geniuses went back to strategy. Apparently, Lestrade was in the middle of a rather badly written, over dramatic mystery novel and his real life, where things made sense and was _real_ , was clearly taking a holiday.

 

Fuck.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

Getting ready for a new mission. Nothing was new about that. The weapons were almost ready to go and Alec was spending time discussing the blueprint layout and the entrance and exit points and strategies that he would like to deploy to John, Lestrade and Sherlock. Given that he was the only MI6 agent going with them, it seemed wise to leave him in charge of that particular operation. Surprisingly, Sherlock hadn't protested at the choice.

 

James looked over to where the Quartermaster sat, his eyes focused on the tablet in front of him. He was no doubt working out a route of his own, through the computer system. James ought to leave him alone in order to work it out so they can save the time in the field. But, he looked so delicate sitting in that overstuffed armchair and James felt the unease go through him.

 

It was the same unease he had felt when he had looked at the old M before the whole Skyfall incident happened and he had vowed to protect her. It was also the same unease he had felt when he had looked into Vesper's eyes and saw the deceit in them. James strode over to where the young man sat and grabbed his arm. The young man flinched at the touch until he looked up and met James' eyes. Then he relaxed and as guided, stood up and followed James out of the room. The others noticed, but did not speak up.

 

James closed the door behind them and moved until the Quartermaster's back was firmly against the panelled walls of the corridor. The Quartermaster looked at him with questioning eyes, but those eyes were also filled with concern, a touch of that steel determination and thinly veiled fear that hit James like a sucker punch to the stomach. Then all of sudden, though he had thought that he didn't know what to say, or how to approach this, the words left his lips.

 

“Stay. Stay here where its safe.” James said, his own words and the tone full of concern and need surprising him as much as it apparently surprised the Quartermaster. The young man shook his head immediately as if he didn't even need to think it through, but James didn't let his arm go. Instead, he lowered his head until it was resting against the junction of the young man's neck.

 

James had never felt this desperate for anyone's safety before. Even M, whilst he had done everything he could to keep her alive and had wanted her unharmed, he had not hesitated to bring the trouble to her, to leave her at the centre of it all in order to use her as bait. But the thought of doing the same with Q... was repulsive. James felt an arm surround his neck and careful hands more used to typing on a keyboard than pulling triggers, raise his head until they were eye to eye.

 

“I need to come with you James. And I will be fine. I promise.” The Quartermaster said and there was confidence there and bravado. It didn't take a genius to see that it wasn't real. The young man was worried, he was scared as well as excited. James could see the bone weariness in there as well and it was clear that he just wanted it over and done with. James had to agree with the last bit.

 

“I...” James started but before he could continue, he looked down and saw the Quartermaster's lips and then it was a compulsion. Having had a taste of him, James thought that he was over it. He usually was with all of his conquests. He could fain the interest if he needed to, but it was usually out of need to keep a cover up and not true desire. Except, even though he had pulled this young man apart in bed and had catalogued the taste of his lips, James couldn't help himself but taste it again. It was addictive in ways no one else had been.

 

James captured those lips carefully and the Quartermaster's eyes slid close with the touch. It was a gentle kiss, warm and soft and there was a hint of fear, a hint of desperation as if it was going to be their last and that thought was... unpleasant. Even with those emotions though, the young man's body was completely relaxed against the wall and against James. Even now, his Quartermaster felt safe, felt at ease and James felt a thrill of power go through him at the knowledge that he could render this self confident, powerful young man into such a state with just his presence. But with that knowledge also came a burden that he wasn't sure if he could bear.

 

“Please.” James found himself whispering against those lips as the kiss ended. The pleading tone in his own voice was foreign, as was the word. The Quartermaster seemed to feel that too because his eyes flew open at the word and he met James' icy blue eyes with his own hazel ones. They were dilated now with the warm desire coiling in their stomachs, but there was also that determination that remained.

 

“Pleading with me isn't going to make me stay.” The Quartermaster said quietly and James knew. He knew men like Q. He knew that once they had their prize in sight, nothing could stop them. Still, he needed to try. James lowered his head until he was nuzzling the Quartermaster’s neck and kissed his way down, leaving small kiss marks that would fade before they even packed up to leave.

 

“Hm... seduction is your dance I know, but that's not going to work either.” His Quartermaster told him, his sentence broken through the soft moans he gave as encouragement. James continued anyway and rose up to meet those lips again. This time, there was more heat, more encouragement and James lost himself for a moment in that kiss. But it was only for a moment. A second later, James found himself focusing his attention on the problem at hand and focused the kiss too, until he had the young man panting and his hands were roaming all over the now, familiar body.

 

James looked down at the Quartermaster, meeting the dilated hazel eyes as he leaned closer, till their bodies were flush together. Their eyes closed involuntarily as their groins met and the Quartermaster's back hit the wall behind him. James raised his arms, trapping the Quartermaster with his forearms and leaned his head down.

 

“Seduction _is_ my favourite dance, Q.” James said, lips just barely brushing the Quartermaster's. The young man surged forward to make contact, but James leaned back, keeping the distance constant. The Quartermaster, his Quartermaster, made a desperate noise. James smiled and leaned down, awarding him with a soft open lipped kiss along his jawline.

 

“But it's not the only dance I know.” James finished, grinding his hips against the Quartermasters before he stepped away. The young man moaned at the loss and opened his eyes.

 

“Bastard.” He said vehemently. James smiled at that for a moment before he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the young man's. It was warm, much warmer than the Quartermaster's usual temperature, but given what they had been doing, it was hardly a surprise. James knew better, but he indulged in another kiss before he whispered his next words on those lips.

 

“Don't make me break out my other methods of persuasion Q. You won't enjoy them.” James said, but he couldn't make his voice sound as menacing as he normally would have given the situation. But then, any other asset, he wouldn't have hesitated to take into the field, making sure that they were safe by ensuring only that he was near them during everything but this time, even if Q was out of sight, he wanted him out of this particular fight. The young man seemed to disagree and when James looked up, he found himself looking not at Oscar Holmes, but the Quartermaster of MI6 with the metaphorical cloak of his authority drawn around him.

 

“Don't make me issue orders then 007. You won't enjoy that either.” The young man said before he slipped away from James' arms and made his way into the room. James stood alone in the corridor for a long moment before he walked back into the room. If he couldn't leave him behind, then James was going to have to be better than he ever was and keep the Quartermaster, _his_ Quartermaster, alive at all costs.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

00:20

19 November 2013

 

“What a pleasant surprise. I certainly was not expecting to see _you_ here Sherlock.” The familiar voice rang out into the cold, empty room. The voice was familiar, but the intonation, the accent and everything else about the tone was all wrong. He really ought to have noticed it sooner, Sherlock thought to himself as he looked at the young woman standing in the middle of the room.

 

Of course she had prepared for this moment too, Sherlock though. There was surprise in her eyes and demeanour but this hadn't been far outside of her calculations or the calculations of the Moriarty entity. They had thought over this plan for years and years and years. They would have thought of every possibility and every twist and turns their plans would take. They wouldn't have been fully prepared, but Sherlock could see now, she had well been aware that this was a possibility.

 

“I bet it was a rather large blow to your ego though, wasn't it? Finding out that it was little old me, the girl you never gave a second glance to, that could possibly been involved?” She asked, her voice clipped and imperial. Her accent had always been a bit on the lower class end of the scale, but now, Sherlock could see that she has had the best education money could buy. She _had_ been under the thumb of a man, but it hadn't been through domestic violence as he had first assumed. It was through being 'proper'. She had always played the role of the perfect daughter without being able to be her own person. That resentment, her brilliance and her sociopathic nature, no doubt, had given rise to Moriarty.

 

When that conclusion came through, it was all too easy to notice the resemblances and then the links made themselves. Siblings. Of course, Sherlock thought. But Moriarty had never been the true sociopath. No, he had merely been sick. Clever though, probably as clever as her, but in finding what he thought was the perfect mind for his to meld with, Moriarty had fallen in love with his own sister. That knowledge and the fact that he could not escape the addictive nature of her brilliant mind had driven him to insanity and down this path with her. He had sacrificed himself for _her_. At the end of it all, everything had been about _her._

 

“Poor poor boy, he never knew did he. He never figured it out even till the end when he pulled that trigger.” Sherlock said in return. Sherlock saw John's tension, his raised gun and Lestrade right behind him, but he put out a hand in warning to them. Not yet. He wanted to know. He _needed_ to know just how brilliant this mind had been before it was all over. And it was. She knew that. But then she had planned her end and she would have thought of something else if she had known that this was a possibility.

 

Molly Moriarty looked at him with her wide brown eyes and whilst it had once been filled with innocence, it was now filled with cunning and satisfaction. Apparently this path, this end had always been an option for her and it had also been an acceptable one. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him and there was such shrewd intelligence in those eyes that Sherlock felt his heart rate speed up. The thrill of it all ran through him with a rush of heady adrenalin.

 

“From the beginning, I knew it was either going to end with your brother in my hands or with you putting a bullet through my brain just like my poor brother did. I had thought that it was more likely for your brother to be here, but clever, _clever_ you. You worked it out, didn't you?” She told him whilst she clapped her hands together. She was dressed unlike anything Sherlock had ever seen. A cream coloured, perfectly tailored winter suit, three quarter length white winter coat and a blood red shirt underneath. Her nails were painted to match her shirt and so was her lipstick. Her hair was down, falling around her in perfect curls and Sherlock could imagine her sitting before the vanity in her apartment getting ready for her triumph or downfall.

 

“It is kind of sad. Your brother and I could have done so much together. Brilliant mind like his is wasted in the government sector. Pity. But the damage _has_ been done hasn't it? Your brother will no longer be the same now that he has relived his past and it will take _years_ for him to feel safe again. And you!” Molly laughed as she spoke and Sherlock, for the first time, felt the fear.

 

Sociopathy, Sherlock had found, had always applied to him because he had very little understanding of human emotions and as a result, he was unable to sympathise with people. He had thought that this allowed him to treat most people with disdain and ignore social norms and rules. But Molly... she was presenting the true sociopath in all its glory. She not only had no value for any other humans bar herself, she had a sense of self entitlement, as if the world was _meant_ to bow to her every will, not the mention her ability to put on a front as if to mask her psychotic nature by appearing to be like everyone else and enjoying the drama of it all. It made her into a terrifyingly real monster.

 

“Oh you think you came through this unscathed, but oh _no_ darling. Have you looked at John lately? He is _never_ going to trust you like he once did Sherlock. You broke him. Not me, or my brother. _You_. He is going to know what it is like to be betrayed by you and that is never going to go away. But never you mind that. The important thing is, you are always going to remember this moment. You are going to always be effected by what you are about to do Sherlock.” She said and Sherlock felt it as if she was twisting a knife in his heart.

 

He _had_ seen it. In John's eyes. The doubt, the pain and the trust he had lost. He had hoped that perhaps with time, he could build it up again, to get John to trust him again in the way that they had before. Sherlock had thought that he could- but he had also seen the looks exchanged between John and Alec. Stop it, Sherlock told himself. He was falling into the trap of mind games Molly was using as her finale. He really ought not to give her that satisfaction.

 

“You want to be remembered. You want to leave scars behind. You believe that you are entitled to it. You aren't. The scars will fade and people will heal because that's what they do. We won't tell your story to others. It will never be known and there will be no memories.” Surprisingly, it was John that spoke up, his voice full of calm nonchalance that Sherlock found it shocking to hear. Perhaps it was the pain still, the numbness that had filled John when he had first walked into the hospital room, but it also gave him hope. John wasn't going to let this effect them because to do so would be to let her win. But it was still going to take time.

 

“We both know human nature isn't that simple though, don't we? Sherlock will remember pulling the trigger of that gun and the poor detective is always going to wonder if he is working with a cold blooded sociopath.” She said and there was a hint of something in her eyes that told Sherlock that she didn't believe a word she had just said. She knew better. She had hoped. This was her final stand, her final hurrah and she wanted it to be lasting. But she was right. When Sherlock pulled the trigger, he was going to remember the death.

 

“And that's where you miscalculated darling. Only one of us has the licence to kill in this room and a head count far too long for even the good old lady Death to keep track of.” Alec said as he raised the gun and fired without a single moment of hesitation. The round hit her dead centre in the forehead and that was it. A single drop of blood trailed down her forehead before her body fell.

 

The echo of the gunshot was the only sound for a moment as they slowly lowered the guns pointed at her. It was anti-climatic almost, but then most things were right at the end. She didn't deserve the climatic end. The reverie, the relief that it was all over began to settle, but the nagging feeling in Sherlock's mind told him to get a move on. It was no time for sentimentality. He didn't have to wait long for the deductions to fall in his mind.

 

“Get out. Now. If she's losing, she isn't doing it alone. Tell Oz that they need to get out.” Sherlock said, knowing that his brother had rigged their earpieces to only listen to Alec during their mission because he was the one that was least likely to be talking unless it was important and mission focused. Also, Sherlock knew, because his brother couldn't handle it if he heard anything like Sherlock getting hurt over the earpiece. Alec seemed to understand and he was talking fast through the earpiece, professional and curt, directing his words to James Bond even as they turned tail and began running.

 

They were almost out of the compound when Sherlock heard it. And he felt himself stop dead still as the sound rang out through his earpiece and he saw Alec's steps falter too. Then all hell broke loose and Sherlock ran, faster than he had ever run because the one sound he had never wanted to hear was still ringing in his ears along with the desperate voice of James Bond.

 

No. He thought. No. Not now. Not again.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. 
> 
> So. It's Sunday night and I am drinking tea from my Q mug my friend bought for me in a museum. Made it through the week without any more problems, which is a good start, but it has been a freaking draining week because my job doesn't have 'normal' days. Yay for me for choosing a stressful job. Anyways, here is the next offering and I do apologise for the delay. It has taken a little while to best tell the story I wanted to tell and hey... I really can't post until I'm satisfied. 
> 
> I have began work also on the other fics, because nothing like multi tasking to get the writers block to fuck off... right? 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy and fyi... we have at the most about 3 chapters to go so enjoy! 
> 
> P.S. As always, the comments are wonderful and thank you so much for them. Please keep them coming because they are literally my life blood as far as writing is concerned!


	16. Sixteenth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James finds out what the price of failure is and M finds himself learning the intricacies of his role. 
> 
> Or... in which M thinks M might stand for Matchmaker?

 00:19

19 November 2013

 

“Hurry up Q.” James muttered as he barricaded the door the best he could. It wouldn't do much though and James knew it, even as he shouldered the closest cabinet containing what looked like files, into place. The Quartermaster was typing away, his nimble fingers dancing across the keyboard in James had only seen him capable of. The staccato rhythm of his typing echoed though the room.

 

Whilst the door they had used to gain entry was secured for now, there were two more entrances on the second level and James couldn't secure those. Not in the time they had, nor with the equipment they had. James paid close attention to the comm feeds and knew that whilst it wasn't going smooth per say, things were proceeding more or less in the ways that he had hoped.

 

Sherlock, apparently, had been right. Trafalgar Square, it seemed, was the headquarters they had expected the Quartermaster in. There were more personnel there then James and the Quartermaster had run into as they made their way through the compound here. Having said that, their work _had_ been made markedly easier through 009 working her way through from the back of the compound, picking off all security personnel she came across. She was still working her way through the men in clearly what had to be the war of attrition method since they seemed to hard pushed to slow her down.

 

There was a graze on the Quartermaster's forehead where there had been a close call with a stray bullet, but other than that, the young man was unscathed and James counted his lucky stars for that alone. For now. He sported a rather nasty gash on his right side from a bullet and his thigh could really do with a close look, but for now, they were going as well as could be expected. He really did need the young man to hurry up though.

 

There was that annoying gut instinct raising its ugly head in James' stomach and he recognised it to be that healthy fear all agents come to respect. It was the feeling that said that things had been far, far too easy to this point and that he really ought to expect trouble now. It was also the same feeling that had James looking around constantly, keeping his eyes on the second floor and the exposed back of the young Quartermaster.

 

The high ceilings of the warehouse was almost... cliched, especially with the space opening up to the second floor, with the walkway lined by railings and clinical, sterile nature of it all. His Quartermaster stood right in the middle of it all, as if the computer station had been designed as some sort of stage. The young man even had a light lit right on top of the computer he currently stood in front of, as if it was highlighting him as a target. James didn't like it. Not one bit.

 

Except, try as he may, James was never going to have the kind of skills the Quartermaster did and there was no way he could make him stand back and wait for everyone to be declared dead before he started working on the computer system. The young man was quick though, from what James could see. He had decrypted the initial log in screens and was fast working through the internal networks to find the list.

 

Knowing how extensive the network had been once Sherlock and Q had really gotten into the nitty gritty of it all, James _knew_ that the list of names was invaluable. It was also necessary for the future safety of the Quartermaster if nothing else. If an agent was compromised once, through whatever means, then it meant that they could be bought again and that was a risk that James wasn't willing let stand.

 

James listened as 'Moriarty' and Sherlock talked and knew that the Quartermaster wasn't. He had made it clear that he could not be listening to Sherlock whilst he worked and James had understood that. He felt about the same. If the Quartermaster had been with them, then James would have asked to not hear the young man's voice because even the remote possibility of hearing that voice speak in anything other than calm, professional directions, was likely to drive James to distractions. As it was, he _knew_ that he had been sloppy during their infiltration of the compound for that precise reason.

 

“Q.” James called, just to make sure that everything was processing okay and saw the young man raise a quick hand to flick him off. James found himself smiling despite the situation. The Quartermaster's attention and focus was something that he always found tempting to destroy and he knew that he would take great pleasures doing just that on another occasion, at another location. Still, it was gratifying to see him react to his voice at least, James thought.

 

Three more minutes, James gave the young man. If he wasn't done in three, they were leaving. The unease was growing stronger and whilst James wasn't big on intuition and just 'knowing' things, he knew just how important it was for him to trust those instincts when they raised their ugly head during a mission. They needed to get out. Quickly.

 

'Moriarty's dead. You need to get out of there. Now. I get the feeling that if Moriarty can't have him, then she would rather -' Alec's voice began, just as the pounding on the doors did and James backed away from the door to be ready to fire if necessary. Over the noise of the door being broken down and the fight that ensued both in the room and outside the corridor with 009, James didn't hear the rest of Alec's words.

 

But it didn't matter because he knew what they were anyway. If Moriarty couldn't have Q, then she would rather him dead, James knew Alec would have said. The moment that realisation hit, James risked a quick glance over to the Quartermaster and his peripheral vision took in the black shape on the landing of the second floor and even through the hail of gunfire outside of the room, no doubt 009 doing her work, James heard the shot.

 

The empty walls left nowhere else for the sound to go. It echoed back and forth, as did the pained, almost surprised cry that was torn from the one person James had never, ever, wanted to hear such a sound from. James saw the painfully thin body fling backwards with the force of the shot and in his experienced brain told him that it was an armour piercing round. James turned around fully and began firing even as his instincts told him that he was leaving his back vulnerable. It didn't matter. _He_ didn't matter.

 

Though he had gotten him in the first two rounds, James emptied the magazine into the head of the man that had just begun to raise the sniper rifle to reload it and aim it towards James. He never got the chance. The rifle dropped to the first floor with a clanking noise that echoed throughout the warehouse but James ignored it all as he ran forward. He didn't even notice 009's voice asking him questions or informing him that the room was clear. He didn't hear 006's panicked voice either. All he could focus on was running.

 

Somewhere in the distance, he thought he could hear someone's broken voice muttering a constant litany of 'no, no, no, no'. It took him that run to realise that it was his voice. His broken words.

 

The distance had to have been less than 15 feet, but it felt like it was a mile. James dropped the gun as he got to Q and he knew that it was dangerous, but he didn't care, because all he could focus on was the dark stain forming underneath the prone form and the rise and fall of that chest. His hands moved as if they was all thumbs as he ripped open that ridiculous green winter jacket. The black Q Branch made vest hadn't managed to stop the bullet and that made his movements all the more frantic.

 

He could hear the sound of another person entering the room, but he ignored it in favour of ripping that unzipping that vest and pulling away the- oh God. There was blood everywhere. The thin beige cardigan was stained through and and the white shirt Q wore was about the same. James pulled both of them away even as he kept looking at Q's eyes, trying to keep them focused. His glasses had fallen away during his fall and those hazel eyes looked more vulnerable than they had ever.

 

“I-I t-thi-” Q tried to stutter something but James hushed him, his fingertips shaking as he looked for the wound. Not in the chest, James prayed. Just not in the chest. It was high up as James brushed the blood away with his fingertips, he felt himself almost sigh in relief as he realised that the chest was clear. It was higher up in the shoulder. Two more inches though, he would have been a kill shot.

 

“It's okay Q. You're going to be okay, you hear me? Focus on me and stay awake Q. Stay with me.” James found himself telling Q even as he bunched up what he could of that ridiculous cardigan and the shirt to place it over the wound and staunch the flow of the precious life blood the Quartermaster most definitely could not afford to lose. The hitched cry of pain was almost physically painful to hear as James worked, but James ignored it for now. He could spend time apologising for it later, when he could breathe.

 

“Oh God.” The soft gasp from 009's voice was somewhere behind him, but James ignored it. He heard her moving, shuffling about, looking for something, anything to help stop the bleeding. She came back, her heavy tactical boots making all the sound that she could manage to make to keep him aware of her movements. He only looked away from his Quartermaster when he saw in his peripheral vision, a wad of bandages being handed to him. James took it and laid it on top of all the clothing and pressed as hard as he dared. The wound was a through and through.

 

“I need med evac to my location immediately.” 009 said, most likely over the phone since their earpieces weren't linked in to the rest of MI6. James ignored that for the time being as he tried to think. Then what Alec had said came rushing back and then he was moving, his pure instincts taking control of the situation whilst his mind sat back, unable to deal with the rush of emotions that came at seeing the Quartermaster's blood coating his hands.

 

“We need to get out of here. Q. You need to stay awake, you hear me?” James told Q as he lifted him into his arms and pressed the wounded shoulder into his own so that his body could staunch the flow of blood if nothing else. James stood up with the burden in his arms and 009 seemed to read what his intention was because she began to move quickly too.

 

They ran out of the warehouse, heedless of the bodies that littered the corridors or the stray moans they could hear as they ran. James' full attention stayed with the Quartermaster, just listening to his breathing, making sure he could feel those small movements that told him that he was still alive. James tried to ignore the warm flood of blood that stained through his own winter jacket or the way they rapidly cooled as flowed down his own chest. His right thigh complained about the extra weight and the heedless, nearly reckless movements, but he ignored even all that as he ran.

 

They made it out of the compound, into the cold winter air by the time whatever devices had been planted, exploded. James felt the whoosh of the explosion behind his back, but he held steady and made sure that even though his body swayed, he did not fall. He couldn't. Not with the precious bundle in his arms. Eventually though, he put the Quartermaster down onto the ground with 009 guarding them both. She didn't offer a hand. She must have intrinsically understood that James could not tolerate another's presence, let alone touch, near the injured Quartermaster. He was grateful for that.

 

“Med evac will be here in three.” 009 informed him and James nodded even as he kept the pressure on the wound steady and wrapped a careful hand around the ashen face of the- _his_ Quartermaster. The young man's eyes were closed but they did try to flutter open with James' touch. He should have done better, James thought. The young man had trusted him, had laid his life in James' hand and he had failed him. The Quartermaster's hazel eyes opened barely and met with James' and there was a small, blood coated smile on those lips that had James matching it, unable to help himself.

 

“I-I'm al-alright.” Q said and James wanted to say that he wasn't and that he had been shot, but the young man shook his head a little and tried to raise his far too thin arm towards James. James took the hand with his left hand and raised it to his face as he was sure was the young man's intention. It was only then that James realised that his face was wet, that there was warm liquid mixing with the blood and his eyes widened at the realisation.

 

“W-we m-ma-tch now.” His Quartermaster managed to mutter and James found himself smiling despite it all even as the anger, regret and a whole other batch of emotions he wasn't sure he could deal with, rushed through him. He bent over the form of his Quartermaster protectively and held him as tightly as he dared as he waited for the tell tale signs of the helicopter. The young man's blood felt hot on his hands, even if they dried rapidly in the cold winter air.

 

James let himself focus on the rise and fall of that chest, on the heartbeat that he thought he could hear over the mundane night noises of the London city. That heartbeat, the frantic rhythm of it, James thought, was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. James raised his Quartermaster's fingers to his lips and kissed them. And waited.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

00:55

19 November 2013

 

It's about time he went home, M thought, but he made no moves to get up or to tidy up the paperwork that would have to wait another day to be looked at. Everything was done. He hoped. He had heard about 009 being requested to go out, not through the chain of command, but through Eve Moneypenny's own confirmation only. He also heard from Moneypenny that the Quartermaster had been hurt, but that he was alive and that med evac had been requested. Not ideal, but M hoped that the price that they had paid was worth it. So it was all over and dusted, or so he hoped.

 

Except, M couldn't make himself leave. He wanted to check on the Quartermaster himself, to make sure that the young man was safe. He knew that they were busy right now though and he knew that he really ought not to exert his presence on the medical staff working hard to keep the Quartermaster in the world of the living. Not to mention... he had an odd feeling that he was waiting for something. Something like-

 

M looked up when he felt the hairs on his neck alert him to the presence. Old military training and instinct did help him in that respect. Ah, M thought. Of course. James Bond stood in the doorway of his office. There was blood everywhere, on his hands, on his clothes and on his face, the Quartermaster's blood, M realised. Bond's face was haggard, exhaustion clear on his face and his eyes. He looked much, much older than his file age of 35 and M knew that look from his years in the service. It was the look of a tired soldier, one that has lost far, far too much. Irrationally, he wondered if James Bond was about to hand in a resignation, but knew better.

 

“It's done sir.” James said in an emotionless voice and it sent a chill down M's spine. He wasn't used to seeing Bond like this. He was used to the man being self confident and arrogant, not broken like this. He had thought that after last M's funeral, he had seen Bond broken, but this? Inwardly, M wondered if he had fully appreciated the light banter that had been happening between Bond and Q for some time now. Was it more than just a casual flirt? Had he seriously made a mistake by sending people with more vested interests out into the field together?

 

“Good. I take it that both targets had been eliminated?” M asked, keeping his best poker face on and keeping his tone wholly professional. Bond nodded. Good. Both Moriarty and Moran was gone then. One problem of thousands done and dealt with, onto the next, M thought with a sigh. He looked down at his paperwork for a moment, thinking that the conversation was over and that Bond would leave now. He didn't. He stayed where he was standing and after a long moment of silence, M looked back up at him.

 

“Yes?” M asked with a raised eyebrow even as he reminded himself to monitor both Q and this agent closely to ensure that their professional relationship isn't effected by whatever had happened during the work they had done together. It was clear that 007 was compromised, in ways that M wasn't quite sure the agent had been ready for either, if that look was any indication. There was also something else in his eyes that had M feeling distinctly... uncomfortable. It was a look he was more used to seeing in his children when they were in trouble or the look he saw on his wife's face after she had spent a thousand pounds on a single bag.

 

“The mission-”

 

“The Quartermaster was injured. You failed your mission objectives.” M interrupted. It must be hard, M thought. 007 wasn't used to failing and technically, he hadn't. He was, however, unable to forgive himself for whatever mistake he thought he had made. It was sort of ridiculous really, M thought, that he was expected to dish out punishments when it wasn't required, but then it _was_ his job to keep the agents working at their best and it didn't take a genius to work out what this particular agent needed.

 

“I ought to suspend you without pay and make you pay our penances, but the Quartermaster is injured. He needs protection till he is well enough to come back to work. More importantly, we weren't know the mole until that young man could decrypt the file he managed to get. I'm giving you to the Quartermaster to do what he sees fit.” M told him and a sense of right settled in his stomach. M for Matchmaker then? M thought to himself. He _had_ done extensive research on all of his 00 agents when he had first come onto scene and he _had_ also looked closer into the Quartermaster's history before this whole mess had started.

 

M had known about the link between the two and he knew that it must have played a large role on the genius choosing to work for MI6 rather than the other countless organisations that no doubt would have given half of their country's wealth if it meant the young man would work for them. Still, the genius had come into MI6 because of this battered man. Their history went back 10 years and if this mission was any indication, the young man was professional enough to work with the most difficult and most successful 00 agent they had. As far as M was concerned, that was far too complex and far too... ingrained in both of them for him to interfere. In fact, if it meant that 007 would be more grounded and if it kept Oscar Holmes in the position of the Quartermaster of MI6, then M had no objections. Policy be damned.

 

“Sir?” Bond raised an eyebrow as if he knew exactly what the underlying command was and M raised an eyebrow in return. The rumour mills were going to go flying and there was going to be drama over this, he assumed, but it would be worth it because lets be honest, did M really, really want these two together, _outside_ of his purview? That thought alone was going to give M nightmares. Oh he knew that it wasn't going to be simple. He wasn't sure if they even _had_ a relationship per say, but there was _something_ there and even if it was going to take time and work, it was something M knew that would benefit MI6 over all. Over time at least. God he hoped he was right.

 

“Report to your Quartermaster Mr Bond.” M told him in a voice that left no doubt at all. He didn't stress the word 'your', but from the way that James Bond flinched, it was clearly the way he had been thinking of the young man. Trust Bond to do that, M thought. Only Bond would dare to think of one of the most powerful men in the country as his own. Bond did nod curtly and turn around and began walking down the corridor. Though M had seen the rather painful gash on the right thigh, the other man walked as if nothing was bothering him at all. Bloody 00s, M thought to himself as he wrote a quick note and stood up from his desk.

 

It was time for him to go home now, to his sleeping wife and two teenager children that had only vague ideas that he worked for the government in a political capacity and never knew that he yelled at trained assassins at least half dozen times in a day. Ignorance, M thought, really was bliss, as he handed the note he had written for Q to Eve.

 

“That ought to keep you free of 007 for awhile.” M told her with a wink and saw the amusement as well as surprise go through Eve's eyes as she read over the note and nodded curtly to him.

 

“A _wise_ decision sir _._ ” She said as she stood up and heels clicking, made her way down towards Medical. M watched her leave for a moment before he turned back into his office to gather his coat and briefcase. M donned his coat, turned the lights off in his office and walked the opposite direction to Eve. Perhaps he ought to have been a little less... forthcoming in his note, he thought, but no. With those two, being the most direct was probably the best route. Besides, it wasn't as if they weren't capable of keeping secrets and neither was he.

 

'007 is yours to do as you please. Speedy recovery. M.'

 

M really hoped Q would be smart enough to destroy that little note.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right... 
> 
> We are seeing the end of the tunnel here people. Which is kind of amazing because as far as writing is concerned, I'm like a child with AHDD. I get distracted by the passing wind. Having said that, the only distractions I had from this fic were others in the fandom so I guess it doesn't matter. I hope you enjoy this offering and... when you get the urge to yell at me, remember there *must* be hurt before we can have comfort. Please? 
> 
> So... I still haven't been able to decide what I am going to post next. I have both works, started at the moment so I guess whichever I write quicker gets first posts I guess. Lets see how the muses will strike! lol 
> 
> Thank you for the kind comments and kudos as always and... remember that more love I get, the more I am likely to give back! =P


	17. Seventeenth Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the lines between reality and memories blur for the Quartermaster, only to be brought back to focus again by James and John looks for a way to escape from the pain. 
> 
> Or... in which Q is annoyed at James for making him fly and Sherlock finds out what jealousy feels like.

 10:25

19 November 2013

 

_'Tell me what you know.'_ The voice demanded. Oscar looked up through the haze of pain, blood and tears and looked into the determined, broken eyes of his mother. They were filled with pain, pain no doubt because of what they were doing to him rather than to her. Blood dripped onto her face too, from whatever they had done to her. Tears flowed down her face, but her lips were tightly sealed.

 

' _Never tell them anything honey. They will try to break you, but you are strong. I know you are.'_ She had told him, over and over again when he had been young. Other families had secrets about the naughty things they had done as children, some had darker secrets of violence and skeletons in the closet. The Holmes had the secrets of a nation held in their breasts. There were no secrets within the household, but against the world, they had _nothing_ but secrets.

 

Oscar didn't say a word. He whimpered, he cried out in pain, unable to hold it in like his mother did. He screamed in agony when the next hit came and he begged in fear when they took his clothes and he saw the menacing delight in their eyes. But at no time did he tell them anything. Nothing at all. Because he was a Holmes and he was strong. Stronger than they would ever know.

 

The cold water they threw over him burned but he relished in it because it washed away some of the grime, some of the blood. It also washed away the traces of tears and the disgusting remnants of their carnal desires. It did nothing to wash away the broken remains of his soul, or his psyche but that was okay. Later, Oscar told himself, later, he would curl up in Mother's arms and cry. Later, she would cry with him, broken hearted because he was broken. But now, he would keep his mouth shut and concentrate the way he was taught.

 

He thought about the program he had been writing for his doctorate. He focused on- the agony burned through his concentration. It hurt. Like a brand being burnt into his shoulder. But they hadn't done that. There were no red hot brands. There were no knives that had-

 

'Q.'

 

There was a voice. Calling a name that wasn't his. But it was a name. Nothing but a letter, but it was a name surely as- whose name was it? Oscar wondered. No. That wasn't right. He focused on that voice through the hot pain and the pain was so real, so sudden and it jarred the remnants of a world he had left behind. He shook himself as the fear and the pain forced him to cry out.

 

'Q! It's okay. You're okay. You're safe now.'

 

Unfamiliar yet so inherently familiar. The voice that whispered over and over again sunk in despite the best taunts of his tormentors and eventually they faded into nothingness. Oscar looked up in the black darkness that surrounded him and focused his attention on that voice. With that focus, came the thousand times he had heard that voice and the thousand different ways it had spoken his name.

 

'Q'.

 

'Quartermaster'.

 

With that, he could recall the easy smiles, the crinkle near his lips and the smiling lines at his temple and eyes. He could see the furrow of concentration on that forehead. A weathered face. A face that had faced more wars and more battles than the world could fathom. Twinkling icy blue eyes filled with amusement, with arousal and at times, uncharacteristic warmth. Calloused hands, warm and steady against his neck, against his body and wrapped tightly around his-

 

_James._

 

The name came like a prayer and Oscar fought back everything else until he could just remember that name and that voice. That reassuring presence. The steady heart beat. The cloud of pain was still there, but his tormentors were gone and so was the memory. Q. That was him. The Quartermaster. Those were his names that were being called.

 

“J-james?” He stuttered out as his bleary eyes began to take in the surroundings. He blinked once, twice and third time until he could see the golden hair, the icy blue eyes filled with concern and that easy smile on those lips. There was a hand on his chest, holding him down but it didn't matter. The fear he normally expected was nowhere to be seen because _he_ was here. Q sighed a breath of relief and did his best to smile.

 

“Hey there. You're in Medical. In MI6. It's all over and you are safe.” James, that reassuring, masculine voice told him and Q nodded. Of course he was safe. James was here. Wait. Medical? What was he doing-

 

The pain was sharp and now that he was awake, it was almost overwhelming. He cried out as he jostled the wound and James frowned a little as he reached over and fiddled around with something. The warm grey walls, familiar warm grey walls of Medical brought everything rushing back. The black screens full of encryption and the rush of air that had been expelled from his lungs at the impact. Then the pain. Then the coldness. The sheer, utter cold that had enveloped him. He remembered bits and pieces of the ride on the helicopter. Wait. Helicopter?

 

“Y-you m-made me fly?” Q asked even as the edge of his vision started getting a little fuzzy. His brain felt like there was a fog inside of it and it was hard to concentrate, but he saw the amusement in those icy blue eyes. Along with the easy smile and a chuckle he wasn't sure if he had heard before. He found himself smiling a little even as his eyes closed of their own accord.

 

“Go to sleep Q. I'll be here when you wake up.” James said and Q listened, because the black blanket of unconsciousness was already pulling him down anyway and the fear that had put the rush of adrenalin into his system was gone and it took that to realise just how exhausted he was. Q let all of that carry him, along with the warmth of James' hand surrounding his own, to sleep.

 

No more dreams plagued him.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

12:45

19 November 2013

 

“So.” John's voice was cold as ice as he spoke. Alec wasn't surprised. He had been expecting that. He was rather grateful though that he hadn't said anything so far. Alec hadn't wanted to have what was no doubt going to be a dramatic conversation in front of an audience. Alec liked attention surely enough, but it wasn't the kind of attention that he enjoyed.

 

“Alec Trevelyan is my real name.” Alec started, his voice matter of fact as he leant against the railing of the balcony. Even though it was well past midday, the sun was nowhere to be seen and the winter air was harsh against his skin. But it was refreshing compared to the heavily heated air inside and Alec relished in it. John stood next to him, hands in his pockets, his face looking outwards into the city below them. Alec kept a peripheral eye on the other man as he talked.

 

“Everything was a lie then?” John asked and there was no heat in that voice, Alec noted with some discomfort. He had expected John to be a little more expressive in his anger, but it seemed that the other man was a little beyond that for the moment. There had been a fragility to the man when he had walked into the hospital, but by the time they had left, Alec had felt as if John had pulled up a wall, designed to protect himself and Alec wondered just how much it must be hurting for John to act like this.

 

“No. My name and role was. I was there to hunt someone down. I eliminated him on our second last night. Me and James that is. But everything else was real.” Alec told him and tried to forget the bloodshed that happened that night. They had been in the 'green zone' and Alec had told John that he would be going to the make shift 'pub' with a mate of his and that he would see John later, well aware that John would be working at the hospital for the night. John had agreed and Alec and James had slipped out of the green zone and found their target and eliminated him.

 

“MI6 huh? You said you didn't even know how to use a gun properly.” John said with an amused tone and Alec realised that John wasn't upset at him. He was still shaken, deep down to the core by the apparent suicide of Sherlock Holmes and it was clear as day now, that he was barely holding it together. Compared to that, Alec's lies couldn't even phase John. Alec shrugged with a smile.

 

“I was army intelligence. You can't be a good shot and work there.” Alec said with a tongue in cheek expression and John chuckled lightly and moved closer to Alec. Alec knew what was happening and what John's thought process was. He was hurting and despite the relief, there was anger and pain that could not be wiped away so easily. Alec knew exactly what that felt like. Whilst James hadn't been a lover, Alec had felt the same when James had returned. The two of them had worked out their issues, but given the chances of fatality on either side, 00s usually worked out their issues quickly. Some things just weren't worth holding onto in their line of work. Grudges was definitely high on that list.

 

“I-” John started, but didn't know what to say as he turned to look at Alec and Alec just nodded and smiled his understanding as he lowered his head and captured John's lips in a kiss. Though it has been well over a year since their last kiss, the familiarity was still there. Alec knew all the right triggers for this man and he used it ruthlessly. He pulled John tight against himself and exploited the army doctor's mouth opening with a gasp and let his tongue slip in.

 

John fell into the kiss with relief, as if he was glad that someone knew, that someone understood what he needed. John wanted to forget, just for a moment, if nothing else, the pain that he was feeling and taking both of them back to the hot desert sun and the sex that heated up the cold desert nights was going to do that trick.

 

Alec heated the kiss up fast and it was almost odd to know exactly what this man liked and what made him moan, since Alec rarely had repeat lovers, but that in itself was hot. Alec let his hands roam over the body that was far thinner than he remembered and feeling the hot desperation in the other man's body, Alec moved until he was fumbling with the handle of the balcony door. He managed to open it on the third try and he stumbled backwards into the room.

 

Medical was the only place where there were balconies. Apparently agents had a tendency to pick up every bad habit under the sun during their travels and most agents, if they were required to sit still due to injury, had a habit of destroying their lungs. Any other agency or organisation would have tried to talk them out of it, but MI6 catered for those stress relievers by designing rooms with balconies. Go figure.

 

Alec pulled John into the room and John began in earnest to try to divest some of Alec's clothing as the heat inside of the room hit them both. The stuffy air was reminiscent of the desert air and it worked for both of them. Alec pulled John's jacket off first and grinned when he felt a woollen jumper underneath his fingers instead of the bulletproof vest he was more used to feeling. As Alec disengaged from the kiss to pull the jumper off of him, John looked at him with such heady need and desperation that Alec had to stop for a moment to kiss him again.

 

“God it's been so long.” Alec murmured as the woollen jumper came off and the static made the undershirt stick tightly against the army doctor's chest. Alec admired the view for a moment, remembering just how hot it had been to be able to pull this calm, collected man apart with his mouth, tongue and fingers. As if his thoughts had been read, the army doctor surged forward and caught Alec in another kiss before he pulled back and looked Alec hungrily.

 

“I waited for you to call, bastard.” John said and despite the words, there was no reproach in his voice and Alec smiled a little. He had thought about this moment, well... not _this_ moment, but telling John the truth, since he had seen the army doctor again and he had to admit, he still didn't have the right words. So he pulled John against himself and kissed him thoroughly instead and before the doctor could continue his line of thought, he moved them both until they were near the bed.

 

“I've got a lot to make up for then.” Alec said and as expected, John seemed to understand. With a smirk, the doctor pushed Alec till he was on his back on the bed and went about undoing the fancy Q Branch issue belt and the zip of his trousers. John's hands, the kind of hands that were as comfortable holding a SA80 as a scalpel, worked Alec out of his trousers fast and even went to the trouble of undoing his dress shoes and taking the socks off before he stripped Alec bare, the bottom half anyway.

 

“I don't suppose the agency prepares for sexual encounters in their medical bays do they?” John asked with a look in his eyes that said that they needed more heat to move things along because soon enough, he was going to realise what he was doing. John needed to act and not think. Alec saw that in his eyes and accordingly, he did what he did best. Distract.

 

“Probably not. I can tell you though, I am cleared of all medical issues. They are _most_ thorough.” Alec said as he pulled John to himself and meeting the army doctor's hesitant eyes, drew the doctor's fingers into his mouth and sucked on them until they were dripping wet with his saliva. John's eyes darkened immediately.

 

“That is very good to hear. Lay back then, agent. And think of England.” John joked in the way they had done a thousand times in the three months together and Alec did lay back a little, but he stayed on his elbows so he could watch as John pulled his underwear down and circled his hole with the wet fingers. Apparently, despite the desperation in John's eyes, he was all about joint pleasure and Alec had to admit that he was rather grateful for that. It had been... wow, almost a year since he had last indulged in anal sex. And the intrusion, when it happened, felt almost foreign yet familiar.

 

“At least there's no sand here.” Alec muttered as the army doctor patiently inserted the second finger and scissored him open. It had always been a little unpleasant when they were dripping wet with sweat and had sand sticking to places they rather not think about. John chuckled a little even as he lowered his head to lick at the head of Alec's cock. Despite the foreign feeling and the uncomfortable stretch of the intrusion, Alec was painfully hard. Apparently the memories were enough to keep him interested despite the discomforts.

 

“The clean up ought to be easier.” John agreed as he eyed the sink and pulled his fingers out. He swiped his hand clean on the sheet and undid his own pants, pulling himself out. Alec looked at the leaking cock and felt his eyes hood with desire. Damn. He really ought to indulge in this a little more often, he told himself as he felt the John's cock against his hole. Before John pushed in though, he leaned down so that he could capture Alec's lips and they shared a hot, dirty kiss as the first nudge came. It wasn't easy to open up, but Alec relaxed the best he could under the doctor's clever tongue in his mouth and hand on his cock.

 

“Fuck you're tight.” John muttered as the head of the cock slipped in and Alec breathed a sigh of relief into John's mouth. John moved in and out a few times until he could sheath himself fully inside and they both paused for a moment, enjoying the sensations before Alec shifted his hips to indicate that John should get a move on.

 

From that point, the frantic desperation was back. The three months together was enough to learn each other's habits and more importantly, desires. John didn't need a careful lover, he needed a passionate lover that would take him as roughly as he could take it at times and leave him breathless. Alec was about the same. Especially when the sex was about forgetting the world around them and grounding them again in their own flesh.

 

John pounded into him mercilessly and though Alec usually talked to his partners during sex, he knew that it wasn't necessary with John. His heat, his presence was all John needed and Alec let nothing but moans and groans of encouragement slip through. He felt John's balls tightening as they slammed against his buttocks and knew that he was close. With that knowledge, even as his eyes rolled back as John hit just the right spot with just right amount of force to rip a cry from his throat, Alec worked a hand on himself.

 

There was no rhythm and there was certainly no finesse, but neither was required to bring both of them to orgasm. When it hit, it came over both of them like a desert storm, threatening to rip them both into a thousand pieces before it dissipated and left nothing but heady afterglow. John collapsed on top of Alec and laid there for a moment, just catching his breath. Alec wrapped his good arm around the doctor's shoulder and held him tightly against himself.

 

It took a long moment, but eventually, Alec felt the tears seeping into his shoulder and wetting his skin when the doctor shifted. Alec held him a little tighter, ignoring the discomfort of cum dripping from his arse or the softening cock beginning to slip out. The broken army doctor needed this, needed the emotional release just as much as he had probably needed the sexual. Eventually though, Alec did move, pulling himself up properly onto the bed and pulling John up after him. John was compliant and he laid there, his head against Alec's shoulder, his body a comforting weight over Alec's.

 

The room was warm enough to be without a blanket and considering the fact that all of it was underneath them, it was probably a good thing, Alec thought as he carefully ran a soothing hand down the army doctor's back. It wasn't wrecking sobs that Alec had cried onto the shoulder of 008. They were soft, direction-less tears that John hadn't been able to cry, with emotions he hadn't been able to let himself process.

 

Moriarty had been right, Alec thought. It was going to take a great deal of time for John to recover from this, from the emotional hurt and the realisation of the extent of sheer loss he would feel again if he lost Sherlock. Because chances were, even this, even all this pain and anger was not enough to wipe away the love he felt for that man. After all, one can't feel such emotions if there was no love to begin with.

 

Alec heard the footsteps by the door before it opened and he remained as still as he could, his arm wrapped around the doctor. It was lucky that he remembered the sound of those particular footsteps and he wasn't on high alert because they were within MI6's sanctuary, because it kept him from tensing up as the door opened soundlessly, not that John would have noticed in his current state.

 

Laying there, in bed, holding mostly naked army doctor in his arms with signs of their activity clear as the daylight itself, Alec found himself looking at Sherlock Holmes. The calculating pale green eyes met his and Alec saw the flash of hurt, anger and the green eyed monster going through them. Alec shook his head minutely, but the consulting detective seemed to understand. Alec watched as the man took in the details of the room and more importantly, the trembling shoulders of the army doctor and the soft teary whimpers escaping his lips.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, there was nothing but pain. Alec kept his hand moving, running soothingly down John's back as the consulting detective nodded, both to himself and to Alec. He also opened his lips and he mouthed words Alec had to admit, he was rather surprised to see, given the situation. But he was grateful for it, because he knew, for certain now that the other man cared. Tat he loved John as probably as much as John loved him. Alec wasn't sure if he could have let John go again if he hadn't said those words.

 

'Thank you'.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG It's nearly finished and apparently, I wrote a freaking novel in the month or so? I am ridiculous. I seriously can't write freaking ANYTHING without it going to a novel length. I have problems. I really do. I will work on that. Eventually. 
> 
> So, I have already gotten a head start in writing the second part of this series and I have to say, there will be a lot more fluff and the comfort part of the hurt/comfort situation, even though some of the comforting process will unfortunately also take more 'hurt' to get better. I am still debating whether or not Mycroft and Lestrade should get together, since all three brothers being partial to law enforcement types just seem a little ridiculous and it just doesn't seem to add up that they are all gay either... but I am still tempted. God help us all. 
> 
> It has been pointed out to me by two very helpful readers that there are LOTS of issues with the writing. I know. lol It is unfortunately not betaed and I need time and distance from the fic before I can read it objectively to work out the kinks. So, I do promise that it will be fixed but you will have to give me a couple of months at least before I can do that with any real effectiveness. I hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you as always, for the comments, the kudos and the vibes of affection I am getting from you all! =P


	18. Final Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone reflects on the choices made and not made. 
> 
> Or in which James finds himself at the end of 'if you hurt him' speech and in which Sherlock realises that maybe he isn't as clever as he thought.

 22:05

19 November 2013

 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

 

The soft sound measured out the steady beat of his Quartermaster's heartbeat. The small graph also showed the steady heart beat rising and falling and yet, James kept a hand on his Quartermaster's thin wrist to make sure that he could feel the steady pulse under his fingertips. He had woken a few times but had been pulled under quickly enough through the morphine and the exhaustion that usually came with heavy blood loss. James knew just how exhausting all that was.

 

James was tired. Exhausted, really. None of them had really gotten any good sleep over the last week or so and he knew that it was safe now. There were trusted, armed guards outside of the door and this was within MI6. They didn't know the name of the mole yet, but both M and James had been certain that 009 was definitely not it and she was outside of the door with another A list agent. Q was safe. But James couldn't relax. It wasn't because of the chair. The chair was very comfortable and James had certainly slept in worse conditions.

 

It was fear.

 

An inherent fear that as much as James tried to shake, could not. Again and again, James could see his Quartermaster's body being flung backwards with the shot. He could remember the pool of dark blood gathering underneath his form. Though his hands had been cleaned now, James felt like he could still feel that hot blood on his hands, seeping away from the young man's body.

 

Then there was- In the moments before the helicopter had arrived, the Quartermaster's heartbeat had faltered. And there had been a moment. A _distinct_ moment he knew that he would not be able to forget, when the frantic heartbeat had stopped. James could even now feel his trembling hands opening the young man's mouth and starting the CPR as 009's frantic voice demanded med evac to hurry the fuck up.

 

It was ridiculous, James knew. The Quartermaster was fine now. They had done the surgery and he had been given blood transfusions and he was in the clear, stable. Yet, he couldn't take his fingers away from the pulse points and his eyes on the rise and fall of the thin chest wrapped in stark white bandages.

 

“What have you done to me Q?” James asked the prone form, knowing that he wasn't going to get an answer. He had never been like this. Even when Alec had been critically injured in the field and brought back to Medical and it had been touch and go, James hadn't been like this. He had been able to sleep, albeit in the same chair that he was sitting in currently and not far from the other man's side, but he had been able to trust the medical professionals to keep his mate alive. Not with Q. Not this time.

 

“The question ought to be, agent, what have you done to my brother.” The soft voice came from the entrance and James didn't look up. He had been aware of the soft conversation outside of the room and knew when the door had opened. He had trusted 009 to only let in someone important enough to see his Quartermaster at this time. He had actually expected M, but the voice was unfamiliar.

 

“Oh do not fret yourself agent. I am hardly a threat to Oscar.” The man said as if he noticed James tensing and at that, James did look away from the Quartermaster, though he kept his fingers where they were.

 

The man standing by the doorway wasn't tall and he looked as average as one can be, dressed impeccably in a perfectly tailored three piece black suit, white shirt and a winter coat thrown over his arm. He looked vaguely familiar and given the recent events, it didn't take long for James to make the connection. He met the intelligent, sharp brown eyes and nodded to him as he spoke.

 

“Lord Mycroft Holmes.” James intoned and the other man cocked his head as if surprised, but there was no change in his emotions. He did stride into the room and closed the door behind himself. It wasn't dark in the room. Given Q's conditions, the doctors had asked if it would be okay for the light to be on to ensure that they can act quickly if required. James had agreed. The light wouldn't stop him from sleeping and as long as it didn't disturb the Quartermaster, he didn't care.

 

“I see. You remembered the events 10 years ago then. Pity. My brother would have preferred you in the dark.” Mycroft said as he walked closer to the bed until he was next to Q on the other side of the bed and reached down to run a hand through Q's ruffled hair. Even though there were no emotions on his face, James could see, as clear as the day, that there was concern in those eyes. Concern and love.

 

“He doesn't have to know.” James told him and he saw surprise etching itself across the other man's face. He raised an eyebrow and smiled. It was the kind of smile that back room politicians used, the thinly veiled ones that James knew to distrust. The other man seemed to notice that as he stopped carding his fingers through Q's hair and stood straight to look at James. There was calculation in those eyes and James wondered if there was anyone in Q's family that wasn't a genius.

 

“So it seems. He will eventually tell you, I suppose.” Mycroft said and there was a warning in his voice that told James that he should wait until he was told. James agreed. Along with his reliance on James, those memories for Q held monsters and James didn't want to bring any of that up until the young man was ready to confront them himself. Besides, James knew, that despite the fact that he didn't know what his emotions concerning this man was, he did not want the Quartermaster to do anything that he did not want to do. There was an inherent desire in James to keep the young man happy. To see him happy.

 

“You won't have to wait long though. This will bring nightmares and he will want to tell someone. To tell you.” Mycroft stated and James nodded. He had already seen it. The first time the young man had 'woken up' since he had come out of surgery, it had been with a whimper and a pained, desperate cry. The kind that sent an angry shiver down James' spine. It had taken all of his self control not to run out of the room with a knife and exert some payback. On someone. Anyone.

 

“I'll be there.” James found himself saying and saw the other man's eyes go through another quick calculation before he smiled and nodded, as if satisfied by what he saw. James would. He was going to be here, not because he was ordered to, but because he couldn't bear he thought of not having this young man within his sight. Not for awhile at least. Not until the fear in his heart calmed down and he could be certain that the young man was going to be okay.

 

“I see. I will leave him in your care then.” Mycroft said as he leant down and kissed the young man on the forehead in a gesture that was full of affection and love. It was the kind of gesture that made James realise that for all the dysfunction that must come with being the family of the Hound of Baskerville, it must also have been a loving family. Oddly, though he knew he had no right to feel such things, James found himself glad that Q had grown up in such an environment. He also had a feeling that Q was who he was and more importantly _what_ he was because they had known and had nurtured his genius. Even now, he imagined.

 

“Oh by the way Mr Bond,” Mycroft paused at the door with a hand on the handle. James looked up, away from where he had been focusing on the rise and fall of his Quartermaster's chest to meet Mycroft's eyes and for the first time since that man had walked into the room, James felt himself afraid. He realised, _really_ realised, that he was in the presence of the Hound of Baskerville. The Hound that clearly loved and cared for his brother and would be ruthless against his enemies as well as those of the Crown. James felt himself tense, but didn't let go of Q's wrist to reach for the Walther strapped to his side.

 

“We do not take kindly harm falling onto our brother. You will do well to keep that in mind.” Mycroft said and his words were cold, colder than any James had heard before and the threat wasn't veiled. It was open and it was so very real. James could only imagine the kind of restraint it must have taken that man not to use everything he had in his power to squash the Moriarty problem before it could get to where it had. In that alone, James could see his love for his brothers. It was chilling, that ruthlessness. James found himself nodding.

 

“Good night Mr Bond.” The Hound of Baskerville said with a smile and a nod as he left the room and it was only when the door closed behind him that James breathed.

 

Fuck.

 

*#*#*#*#*#

 

08:35

20 November 2013

 

Responsibility.

 

That was the word that kept popping into Sherlock's head. It had been for the last two days, since he had heard the awful sound of his brother's pained cry and he had seen the pain etched across John's face. _Responsibility._

 

All of that. Everything that had happened, including the wound to his brother's shoulder, the pain in John's eyes, the new grey hairs in Mycroft's head, the tears Mrs Hudson shed, the relief etched on Lestrade's face and even the numerous deaths of Moriarty's people, had happened because of _him._ His actions had consequences that he hadn't stopped to consider. He could have talked to Mycroft. He could have reigned in the ridiculous game before it had gotten so far, but he hadn't.

 

He had been too confident, too damned arrogant to think that anything could touch him. And it hadn't. But it _has_ touched everyone else in his life and they were worse off for it. Oscar would forever bear the scars of what happened during the week. He would remember, all over again, the god awful time he had spent in captivity and he would even have a physical scar as a reminder. Sherlock had caused that. He hadn't fired the shot, but surely as if his finger had been on the trigger, he was responsible for it.

 

Consequences.

 

That was the other word that Sherlock couldn't avoid. He hadn't stopped to think. He had been so enamoured with his own stupid brilliance that he hadn't thought about what the impact of his 'death' would be. No, that wasn't true. He _had_ considered it. But he had been blind. He hadn't realised that John wasn't just enamoured with him, hadn't just been enjoying a sexual relationship. He hadn't seen the love in that man's eyes because he hadn't wanted to. Sherlock had metaphorically plugged his ears with his fingers and sang 'lalala' to ignore what should have been blatantly obvious, and _had_ been to others.

 

In doing so, Sherlock had caused John more pain, more anguish then he could ever hope to fix. He had seen that. Clear as the day, at the hospital, as he listened to Moriarty's words and then... at MI6. Bloody hell.

 

Sherlock shook his head roughly as he tried to forget about MI6. He understood John's motivations and he certainly appreciated the kind of pain that would drive him to such an act, but Sherlock couldn't help but feel that irrational emotion rearing its ugly head and burning his insides. John hadn't said a word to him after they had left MI6 in one of those nondescript cars, but he _had_ come into Sherlock's bedroom to sleep in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock hadn't really slept, but he laid there as John did. Just watching him, just... making sure that he was there.

 

John had expected Sherlock to bring it up, Sherlock deduced that much. The other man knew his abilities a little too well. He knew that Sherlock would have figured it out the moment he saw John and Alec, but what John _didn't_ know that Sherlock had seen them together. John didn't have Sherlock's abilities and for once, Sherlock was grateful for it.

 

Despite the anger and the jealousy, as no doubt that's what that emotion was, Sherlock _had_ been grateful to the other man. The moment John had looked at Alec, Sherlock had deduced that they knew each other. Intimately. From that, it wasn't hard to read that there had been a little more than a physical relationship between them and that despite the brevity of their time together, the emotions they had felt had been real. Sherlock had to admit that he hadn't known quite what to do with that until he saw the look in Alec's eyes in MI6.

 

Sherlock had been looking for John after his debriefing by a woman that had severe issues with loneliness and calmed it by growing cactuses that she no doubt talked to and sang to every day. Given the nature of her work though, Sherlock had been surprised that she was so well adjusted. She had also been absolutely useless, but that hadn't been the point. Sherlock had dealt with her with as much patience as he could muster and when he had looked for John, he had found him and Alec.

 

The sex itself didn't bother Sherlock. No. That wasn't quite true. It didn't bother Sherlock, _intellectually_. His emotions seemed to object to it violently, but intellectually, Sherlock hadn't thought it amiss for John to engage in sexual activity with someone else. What had caught Sherlock's notice was the shimmering anger in the agent's eyes and the trembling in John's shoulders as he cried.

 

Sherlock had found himself surprised despite it all. He had thought that he knew John well and that he had worked out how John was going to react, but everything that he had done had been contrary to Sherlock's deductions. John hadn't cried, he hadn't yelled or screamed and the only sight of anger he had seen was at the hospital with a rather mean right hook. Afterwards, when he woke up and had been cleared by the doctors, John had been calm and collected and civil. The warmth Sherlock was used to, and that easy way they worked together wasn't there, but he hadn't expected that. He knew that would take time.

 

But still, John had been far calmer than what Sherlock had expected and he had thought that perhaps it was shock. It turned out, it was John doing what he could to hold himself together. He had been in agony the whole time and Sherlock hadn't seen it. Alec had. The other man had provided John with an outlet for his emotions and even though Sherlock wished that he was that person, that he had been the one that had given John that relief, he was grateful that John got it. Either way.

 

It was going to complicate things though, Sherlock deduced. When John was done with being angry and he began to forgive Sherlock, he was going to feel guilty. John was too good a man not to. He also wasn't going to walk away from Sherlock. Him coming to sleep in Sherlock's bed, even wordlessly, was proof enough of that. Sherlock knew that despite it all, John still loved him and that love was far, far more than he deserved.

 

“It's going to take time Sherlock.” John's voice said as he walked into the room and Sherlock nodded. Even now, John knew what was going on in his mind. Sherlock had always found that fascinating. John wasn't on the same page as him certainly, but the important things, the things that Sherlock needed John to understand, he did.

 

“I know. But you will stay.” Sherlock confirmed. He knew that it was likely, but he needed to hear it. Because as confident as he was in his deductions, he only needed to look back on the week to realise just how wrong he could be and how big the consequences could be if and when he screwed up. He wasn't sure if he could bear it again if he saw that look of raw pain in John's eyes and knew that he was the cause of it. He wasn't sure if he could bear hearing his brother's voice cry out in pain and know that he caused it. He couldn't do this again.

 

“Yes. Because despite it all, I know I can't live without you.” John said tonelessly and Sherlock felt his eyes widen as he looked up at the other man. John looked at him with those pain filled eyes, eyes that asked if he was real, if he was really alive. Eyes, that would forever continue to ask that question because John couldn't believe it, couldn't be reassured enough that Sherlock was there. Sherlock felt those words sink in and it felt like a vice around his heart. Those words left others unsaid too. Words like, 'because I went through it' and 'because you _made_ me go through it'.

 

How does one start? Sherlock wondered numbly. How does one go about fixing this? How does one apologise for this? Sherlock wanted to look away from those emotion filled eyes because it was all too much to bear, but he didn't because he had no right to. This was his punishment. This was the price he was going to pay for the rest of his life because he had made the mistake. One day though, Sherlock vowed to himself, one day, he would be able to look into those eyes and see nothing but warmth and love.

 

“You won't have to.” Sherlock found himself saying even though he knew it was irresponsible. The way their lives were, he couldn't promise that there wouldn't be a bullet flying towards him in the next second. But by God, he was going to try. He was going to do everything in his power to ensure that for as long as John wanted him, John would have him.

 

“Good.” John said as he settled down into his chair and opened the morning paper. Sherlock settled down into his chair too and closed his eyes.

 

Consequences, Sherlock thought. There's always consequences.

 

*#*#*#*#*#*#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. 
> 
> 18 chapters and the length of a novel. All in the space of a 1 month and 15 days. Over 9000 hits, 100 comment threads and more than 200 kudos. For a first time writer in this fandom, I think I have done rather well. It was also all made possible by the wonderful support I have received from you all. I know I have said it before, but a heartfelt thank you to everyone that read this fic and stayed with me for the ride, even through the ridiculous mistakes like 'Molly Harper' instead of 'Hooper'! (I will eventually fix that, when I don't have this fic so strongly in my head). Thank you very, very much and I do hope that you will continue to support my other efforts, such as the supernatural themed fic I am currently writing (not yet posted) and amongst others, a second part of this series. 
> 
> I have written a few chapters of it already and I do hope that all of you will continue to read on and support it as much as you have supported me through this. 
> 
> Thank you very much for all the support and I bid you a very short adieu!


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